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COPYRIGHT DEPOSE 



THE POEMS 

OF 

EUGENE FIELD 



COMPLETE EDITION 







j Jk\m 



CXSXXX33D 



2_fT 



NEW YORK 

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 

1910 



▲ LITTLE BOOK OF WESTERN VERSE 

Copyright, 1889, by Eugene Field 

Copyright, 1896, by Charles Scribner's Sons 



>v 



SECOND BOOK OF VERSE 



Copyright, 1892, 1896, by Julia Sutherland Field 5>» 



SONGS AND OTHER VERSE 
Copyright, 1896, by Julia Sutherland Field 



WITH TRUMPET AND DRUM 
Copyright, 1892, by Mary French Field 



LOVE SONGS OF CHILDHOOD 

Copyright, 1894, by Eugene Field 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 

Copyright, 1904, by Charles Scribner's Sons 



ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM 

Copyright, 1892, by A. C. McClurg Co. 
Copyright, 1895, by Charles Scribner's Sons 



SHARPS AND FLATS 
Copyright, 1900, 1901, by Julia Sutherland Field 



LOVE AFFAIRS OF A BIBLIOMANIAC 

Copyright, 1896, by Julia Sutherland Field 



THE HOLY CROSS AND OTHER TALES 

Copyright, 1893, by Eugene Field 
Copyright, 1896, by Julia Sutherland Field 



THE STARS 

Copyright, 1901, 1903, by New Amsterdam Book Co. 

Copyright, 1906, by Charles Scribner's Sons 



SECOND BOOK OF TALES 
Copyright, 1896, by Julia Sutherland Field 



THE POEMS OF EUGENE FIELD 
Copyright, 1910, by Julia Sutherland Field 




*> 






CONTENTS 



WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 



PAGE 

To Mary Field French . . . 1 

Casey's Table d'Hote .... 1 

The Conversazzhyony ... 4 

Prof. Vere de Blaw .... 7 

Our Lady of the Mine ... 11 

Modjesky as Cameel . . . . 13 

Marthy's Younkit .... 16 

Madge: Ye Hoyden .... 18 

The Bibliomaniac's Prayer . . 22 

The Truth about Horace . . 23 

Our Two Opinions .... 24 

Little Mack 25 

To Robin Goodfellow ... 27 

Apple-Pie and Cheese ... 28 

The Little Peach 30 

The Divine Lullaby .... 31 

De Amicitiis 32 

The Wanderer 34 

Soldier, Maiden, and Flower . 35 

Ailsie, My Bairn 36 

Mr. Dana, of the New York Sun 37 

The Twenty-third Psalm . . 40 

The Bibliomaniac's Bride . . 40 

Christmas Hymn 42 

"Good-by— God Bless You! " . 43 

Chrystmasse of Olde .... 45 
A Proper Trewe Idyll of Came- 

lot 45 

In Flanders 51 

Our Biggest Fish 52 



PAGE 

Thirty-nine 53 

Yvytot 55 

To a Soubrette 59 

Dedication to " Second Book of 

Verse " 60 

Father's Way 62 

To My Mother 63 

A Valentine to My Wife . . 64 

Gosling Stew 65 

John Smith 67 

St. Martin's Lane 70 

Dear Old London 71 

The Clink of the Ice .... 73 

The Bells of Notre Dame . . 74 

Lover's Lane, Saint Jo ... 75 

Crumpets and Tea .... 77 

An Imitation of Dr. Watts . . 78 

The Tea-Gown 79 

Doctors 80 

Barbara 83 

The Cafe Molineau .... 84 

Holly and Ivy 85 

The Boltons, 22 86 

Dibdin's Ghost 88 

The Bottle and the Bird . i 90 

Carlsbad . 92 

Red 93 

At Cheyenne 94 

The Pneumogastric Nerve . . 95 

Telka 96 



VI 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

Plaint of the Missouri 'Coon in 
the Berlin Zoological Gardens 101 

The Partridge 103 

Corinthian Hall 104 

The Red, Red West . . . .107 
The Three Kings of Cologne . 108 

Ipswich 109 

Bill's Tenor and My Bass . .110 
The "St. Jo Gazette" . . .112 

In Amsterdam 114 

To the Passing Saint . . .116 
The Fisherman's Feast . . .117 

The Onion Tart 118 

Grandma's Bombazine . " . . 120 

Rare Roast Beef 122 

Old Times, Old Friends, Old 

Love 124 

Mr. Billings of Louisville . . 125 

Poet and King 125 

Lizzie . 127 

Always Right 128 

Providence and the Dog . .129 

Gettin' On 131 

The Schnellest Zug . . . .132 

Bethlehem-Town 134 

The Doings of Delsarte . . .135 
The Singing in God's Acre . . 137 

The Dream-Ship 138 

Ballad of Women I Love . . 139 

Suppose 140 

Mysterious Doings .... 141 
With Two Spoons for Two 

Spoons 142 

Mary Smith 142 

Jessie 144 

To Emma Abbott .... 145 
The Great Journalist in Spain . 146 

TheStoddards 147 

The Three Tailors . . . .150 
The Jaffa and Jerusalem Rail- 
way 151 

The Wooing of the Southland 
(Alaskan Ballad) . . . .152 



PAGE 

Star of the East 153 

Twin Idols 154 

Ben Apfelgarten 155 

The Dreams 156 

In New Orleans 158 

My Playmates 160 

Stoves and Sunshine .... 161 

A Drinking Song 162 

The Straw Parlor 163 

The Discreet Collector . . .165 

The Wind 166 

A Paraphrase 168 

With Brutus in St. Jo . . . 168 

Pan Liveth 171 

Dr. Sam ....:... 172 
Winfreda (A Ballad in the 

Anglo-Saxon Tongue) . .174 
Lyman, Frederick, and Jim . 175 
Be My Sweetheart . . . .177 

The Peter-Bird 178 

Sister's Cake 183 

Abu Midjan 184 

Ed 185 

Jennie 186 

Contentment 186 

"Guess" 187 

New- Year's Eve ... . . .188 

The Broken Ring 189 

The Ballad of the Taylor 

Pup . 190 

After Reading Trollope's His- 
tory of Florence .... 196 

"The Old Homestead" . . .199 
The Convalescent Gripster . .199 
The Sleeping Child . . . .201 

The Two Coffins ..... 202 

Clare Market . . . . . .202 

A Dream of Springtime . . . 204 

How Salty Win Out 206 

Boccaccio 207 

Marcus Varro 209 

My Garden 210 

One Day I Got a Missive . . 212 



CONTENTS 



Vll 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 



PAGE 

With Trumpet and Drum . .214 
The Sugar-Plum Tree . . . 215 

Krinken 216 

The Naughty Doll . . . .217 
Nightfall in Dordrecht . . .218 

Intry-Mintry 219 

Pittypat and Tippytoe . . .221 
Balow, My Bonnie . . . .222 
The Hawthorne Children . . 223 
Little Blue Pigeon (Japanese 

Lullaby) 225 

The Lyttel Boy 226 

Teeny- Weeny 227 

Nellie 229 

Norse Lullaby 230 

Grandma's Prayer 230 

Some Time 231 

The Fire-Hangbird's Nest . . 232 
Buttercup, Poppy, Forget- 

Me-Not 233 

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod 

(Dutch Lullaby) .... 234 
Gold and Love for Dearie (Cor- 
nish Lullaby) 236 

The Peace of Christmas- 
Time 237 

To a Little Brook 238 

Croodlin' Doo ' 240 

Little Mistress Sans-Merci . . 240 

Long Ago 241 

In the Firelight 242 

Cobbler and Stork 243 

"Lollyby, Lolly, Lollyby" . . 245 

A Valentine 246 

At the Door 247 

Hi-Spy ........ 248 

Little Boy Blue . . . . .248' 

Father's Letter 249 

Jewish Lullaby 251 



PAGE 

Our Whippings 252 

The Armenian Mother . . . 253 
Heigho, My Dearie (Orkney 

Lullaby) 254 

To a Usurper 255 

The Bell-Flower Tree . . .256 

Fairy and Child 258 

The Grandsire 258 

Hushaby, Sweet My Own (Lul- 
laby: By the Sea) .... 259 

Child and Mother 260 

Mediaeval Eventide Song . .261 
Armenian Lullaby .... 262 
Christmas Treasures .... 263 
Oh, Little Child (Sicilian Lul- 
laby) .... c ... 264 
Ganderfeather's Gift . . . .265 
Bambino (Corsican Lullaby) . 266 
Little Homer's Slate . . . .267 
The Rock-a-By Lady . . .268 

"Booh!" 269 

Garden and Cradle . . . .270 

The Night Wind 270 

Kissing Time 272 

Jest 'fore Christmas .... 273 

Beard and Baby 274 

The Dinkey-Bird 275 

The Drum 276 

The Dead Babe 278 

The Happy Household . . .279 
So, So, Rock-a-By So! . . .280 
The Song of Luddy-Dud . . 281 

The Duel 282 

Good-Children Street . . .283 
The Delectable Ballad of the 

Waller Lot 284 

The Stork 289 

The Bottle-Tree 290 

Googly-Goo 291 



VI11 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

The Bench-Legged Fyce . . 292 

Little Miss Brag 294 

The Humming Top ... . 295 
Lady Button-Eyes . . . .296 
The Ride to Bumpville . . .297 

The Brook 299 

Picnic-Time 299 

Shuffle-Shoon and Amber- 
Locks 300 

The Shut-Eye Train . . . .301 

Little-Oh-Dear 303 

The Fly-Away Horse . . .303 
i Swing High and Swing Low . 305 
♦When I Was a Boy . . . .306 

At Play 307 

A Valentine 308 

Little All-Aloney 308 

Seein' Things 310 

The Cunnin' Little Thing . .311 
The Doll's Wooing .... 311 
Inscription for My Little Son's 

Silver Plate 313 

Fisherman Jim's Kids . . . 313 

"Fiddle-De-Dee" 315 

Over the Hills and Far Away . 316 

Cradle Song 316 

The Rose and the Iceberg . . 318 
A Hushaby 319 



PAGE 

Song of the Clouds . . . .319 
The Princess Ming . . . .320 
An Elfin Summons . . . .322 

A Brook Song 323 

The Dismal Dole of the Doo- 

dledoo 324 

The Violet's Love Story . . .326 
An Invitation to Sleep . . . 327 

Coquetry 327 

The Cricket's Song . . . .328 
The Fate of the Flimflam . . 329 

Contentment 330 

A Fairy Lullaby 331 

Ballad of the Jelly-Cake . . 332 

Morning Song 333 

To a Sleeping Baby's Eyes . . 334 
Dream, Dream, Dream . . . 334 

A Lullaby 335 

The Death of Robin Hood . . 336 

Mother and Child 337 

Ashes on the Slide .... 338 

Christmas Eve 339 

Telling the Bees 340 

Two Valentines 341 

The Limitations of Youth . . 342 
A Piteous Plaint . . . . .344 
The Two Little Skeezucks . . 345 
The Bow-Leg Boy . . . .348 



ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM 



PAGE 

To M. L. Gray (Dedication to 
"Echoes from the Sabine 
Farm ") 350 

An Invitation to Maecenas: 
Odes, III, 29 351 

Chloris Properly Rebuked. 
Odes, III, 15 352 

To the Fountain of Bandusia. 
Odes, III, 13 353 

To the Fountain of Bandusia . 353 



PAGE 

The Preference Declared. Odes, 

I, 38 354 

A Tardy Apology. I. Epode 

XIV 354 

A Tardy Apology. II . . . 355 
To the Ship of State. Odes, I, 

14 356 

Quitting Again. Odes, III, 26 357 
Sailor and Shade. Odes, I, 28 357 
Let Us Have Peace. Odes, 1, 27 358 



THE POEMS 

OF 

EUGENE FIELD 






CONTENTS 



IX 



PAGE 

To Quintus Dellius. Odes, II, 
3 359 

Poking Fun at Xanthias. Odes 
II, 4 360 

To Aristius Fuscus. Odes, I, 
22 361 

To Albius Tibullus. I. Odes, 

I, 33 362 

To Albius Tibullus. II . . . 363 
To Maecenas. Odes, I, 1 . . 363 
To His Book. Epistle XX . 365 
Fame vs. Riches. Ars Poetica, 

line 323 366 

The Lyric Muse. Ars Poetica. 

line 301 366 

A Counterblast Against Garlic. 

Epode III 367 

An Excuse for Lalage. Odes, 

II, 5 368 

An Appeal to Lyce. Odes, IV, 

13 368 

A Roman Winter-Piece. I. 

Odes, I, 9 369 

A Roman Winter-Piece. II . 370 

To Diana. Odes, III, 22 . . 370 

To His Lute. Odes, I, 32 . . 371 

ToLeuconoe. I. Odes, I, 11 . 371 

To Leuconoe. II 372 

To Ligurinus. I. Odes, IV, 

10 372 

To Ligurinus. II 373 

The Happy Isles. Epode XIV, 

line 41 . 373 

Consistency. Ars Poetica . . 374 

To Postumus. Odes, II, 11 . 375 
To Mistress Pyrrha. I. Odes, 

I, 5 376 

To Mistress Pyrrha. II . . . 377 

To Melpomene. Odes, III, 30 377 

To Phyllis. I. Odes, IV, 11 . 378 

To Phyllis. II 379 

ToChloe. I. Odes, 1,23 . . 380 

To Chloe. II 380 



PAGE 

A Paraphrase . . . .381 
Another Paraphrase, Circa 

1715 381 

A Third Paraphrase. By 

Dr. I. W 382 

A Fourth Paraphrase. By 

Chaucer 382 

To Maecenas. Odes, I, 20 . . 383 
To Barine. Odes, II, 28 . . 383 
The Reconciliation. I. Odes, 
III, 9 ......... 384 

The Reconciliation. II . . . 385 
The Roasting of Lydia. Odes, 

I, 25 386 

To Glycera. Odes, I, 19 . . 387 
To Lydia. I. Odes, I, 13 . . 388 

To Lydia. II 389 

To Quintius Hirpinus. Odes, 

II, 11 389 

Wine, Women, and Song. Odes, 

I, 18 390 

An Ode to Fortune. Odes, I, 

35 391 

To a Jar of Wine. Odes, III, 

21 392 

To Pompeius Varus. Odes, II, 

1 393 

The Poet's Metamorphosis. 

Odes, II, 20 394 

To Venus. Odes, I, 30 . . . 395 
In the Springtime. I. Odes, I, 

4 396 

In the Springtime. II . . . 396 
To a Bully. Epode VI . . . 397 

To Mother Venus 398 

To Lydia. Odes, I, 8 . . .399 
To Neobule. Odes, III, 12 . 399 
At the Ball Game. Odes, V, 

17 . . 400 

Epilogue 401 

Lydia Dick 402 

In Praise of Contentment. 

Horace's Odes, III, 1 . . .404 



CONTENTS 



VARIOUS TRANSLATIONS 



PAGE 

Uhland's White Stag . . .406 
A Paraphrase of Heine. (Lyric 

Intermezzo) 407 

Old Spanish Song 407 

Uhland's "Chapel" . . . .408 
A Heine Love Song .... 409 
Beranger's "To My Old Coat" 409 
A Spring Poem from Bion . . 410 
Mother and Sphinx. (Egyp- 
tian Folk-Song) . . . .411 
Hymn. (From the German of 

Martin Luther) 413 

Two Idyls from Bion the 

Smyrnean 413 

A Rhine-Land Drinking Song . 415 
Hugo's "Pool in the Forest" . 416 
Hugo's "Child at Play" . . 417 



PAGE 

Love Song — Heine . . . .417 

To Cinna 417 

Der Mann im Keller . . . .418 
"Trot, My Good Steed, Trot!" 419 
Bion's Song of Eros .... 421 

Fiducit 422 

The Lost Cupid of Moschus . 423 
An Eclogue from Virgil . . . 425 
Catullus to Lesbia .... 428 
Korner's Battle Prayer . . . 429 
Beranger's " Ma Vocation " . . 430 
Hugo's "Flower to Butterfly" 431 
Beranger's " My Last Song Per- 
haps " 432 

Uhland's "Three Cavaliers" .433 
Heine's "Widow or Daughter?" 434 
Beranger's " Broken Fiddle " .434 



SHARPS AND FLATS 



The Official Explanation 
The Poet's Return . . 
A Shoshone Legend . . 
A Zephyr from Zululand 
The French Must Go 
A Battle in Yellowstone Park 



PAGE 

, 437 

, 438 

, 438 

440 

441 

442 



His Lordship, the Chief Justice 444 

A Hint for 1884 445 

The Indian and the Trout . . 445 

A Play on Words 446 

How Flaherty Kept the Bridge 447 
The Three-Cent Stamp . . .448 

Big Thursday 449 

The Mystery of Pasadene . . 450 

A Nightmare 451 

Bachelor Hall 452 

Human Nature 453 

A Very Weary Actor . . . 454 



PAGE 

Gettysburg 455 

Her Fairy Feet 455 

The Remorseful Cakes . . . 456 
A Patriot's Triumph .... 457 
"Yours Fraternally" . . .459 
Song of the All-Wool Shirt . . 459 
Of Blessed Memory . . . .460 
A Leap- Year Episode . . . 460 
The Debutante . . . . .462 
The Modern Martyr . . ' . .463 
An Ohio Idyl . . . . . .464 

A Scherzo 465 

An Ohio Ditty 466 

A Good Man's Sorrow . . . 467 
Lament of a Neglected Boss . 468 
Romance of a "Cuss-Word" . 468 

Cold Consolation 469 

Mr. Holman's Farewell . . . 470 



CONTENTS 



XI 



The April Fool 471 

The Old Sexton 472 

Oglesby (1884) 473 

The Political Maud . . . .474 
A Virgilian Picnic .... 475 
An Illinois War-Song . . . 475 
Thomas A. Hendricks's Appeal 476 
The Explorer's Wooing . . . 478 
The Ahkoond of Swat . . .478 
A Plea for the Classics . . . 479 
The Secret of the Sphinx . . 480 
Fanchon the Cricket .... 482 

November 483 

Parlez-Vous Francais? . . . 483 
" Gee Swee Zamericane " . . 484 

Christmas 485 

Chicago Weather 486 

The Collector's Discontent . . 487 
A Leap- Year Lament . . . 487 

111 Requited 488 

Grant 489 

From the Same Canteen . . 490 
Little Miss Dandy . . . .490 

Spirit Lake 491 

To Denman Thompson . . . 492 
"Puritan"— "Genesta" . . 493 
The Song of the Mugwump . 495 
Song for the Departed . . . 495 
A Song of the Christmas Wind 496 
An Overworked Word . . .497 
A Western Boy's Lament . . 498 

Humanity 499 

The White House Ballads 

King Grover Craves Pie . 499 

Sister Rose's Suspicions . 500 

The Wedding-Day . . .501 

The Tying of the Tie . . 502 

The Kissing of the Bride . 503 

The Cutting of the Cake . 503 

The Passing of the Com- 
pliment 504 

Index to First Lines 543 



PAGE 

Three Days in Springtime . . 505 

Sag Harbor 506 

The 5th of July . . . . . 507 
A Poem in Three Cantos . . 508 
In Praise of Truth and Sim- 
plicity in Song 508 

The Fool 509 

To the Ladye Julia . . . .510 
A Ballad of Ancient Oaths . . 511 
The Susceptible Widow . . .512 

Pike's Peak 513 

Longings 514 

From the Rubaiyat of Omar 

Khayyam 515 

Mein Faeder Bed 516 

Bethlehem Town 517 

In Holland 518 

In Praise of Pie 519 

Uncle Eph 521 

Christmas Morning .... 522 
Hymn: Midnight Hour . . . 523 
When Stedman Comes to 

Town 524 

The Straw Hat 525 

A War-Song 526 

Extinct Monsters 527 

Mrs. Reilly's Peaches . . .528 
O'Connor's Iloquint Spache . 529 

Doctor Rabelais 529 

Song 532 

To Ward H. Lamon, Asleep on 
His Library Floor .... 532 

The Snakes 533 

The Boy 535 

The Bugaboo 535 

A Valentine 536 

The Tin Bank 537 

My Sabine Farm 539 

The Vineyard 540 

For the Charming Miss I. F.'s 
Album 540 





UjLuf 



Z> 



WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

TO MARY FIELD FRENCH 

A dying mother gave to you 

Her child a many years ago; 
How in your gracious love he grew, 

You know, dear, patient heart, you know. 

The mother's child you fostered then 
Salutes you now and bids you take 

These little children of his pen 

And love them for the author's sake. 

To you I dedicate this book, 
And, as you read it line by line, 

Upon its faults as kindly look 

As you have always looked on mine. 

Tardy the offering is and weak; — 

Yet were I happy if I knew 
These children had the power to speak 

My love and gratitude to you. 



CASEY'S TABLE D'HOTE 

Oh, them days on Red Hoss Mountain, when the skies wuz fair 

'nd blue, 
When the money flowed like likker, 'nd the folks wuz brave 'nd 

true! 
When the nights wuz crisp 'nd balmy, 'nd the camp wuz all astir, 
With the joints all thro wed wide open 'nd no sheriff to demur! 
Oh, them times on Red Hoss Mountain in the Rockies fur away, — 

1 



Z WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

There 's no sich place nor times like them as I kin find to-day ! 
What though the camp hez busted ? I seem to see it still 
A-lyin', like it loved it, on that big 'nd warty hill; 
And I feel a sort of yearnin' 'nd a chokin' in my throat 
When I think of Red Hoss Mountain 'nd of Casey's tabble dote! 

Wal, yes; it's true I struck it rich, but that don't cut a show 

When one is old 'nd feeble 'nd it 's nigh his time to go; 

The money that he 's got in bonds or carries to invest 

Don't figger with a codger who has lived a life out West; 

Us old chaps like to set around, away from folks 'nd noise, 

'Nd think about the sights we seen and things we done when boys; 

The which is why / love to set 'nd think of them old days 

When all us Western fellers got the Colorado craze, — 

And that is why I love to set around all day 'nd gloat 

On thoughts of Red Hoss Mountain 'nd of Casey's tabble dote. 

This Casey wuz an Irishman, — you 5 d know it by his name 

And by the facial features appertainin' to the same. 

He 'd lived in many places 'nd had done a thousand things, 

From the noble art of actin' to the work of dealin' kings, 

But, somehow, had n't caught on; so, driftin' with the rest, 

He drifted for a fortune to the undeveloped West, 

And he come to Red Hoss Mountain when the little camp wuz 

new, 
When the money flowed like likker, 'nd the folks wuz brave 'nd 

true; 
And, havin' been a stewart on a Mississippi boat, 
He opened up a caffy 'nd he run a tabble dote. 

The bar wuz long 'nd rangy, with a mirrer on the shelf, 

'Nd a pistol, so that Casey, when required, could help himself; 

Down underneath there wuz a row of bottled beer 'nd wine, 

'Nd a kag of Burbun whiskey of the run of '59; 

Upon the walls wuz pictures of hosses 'nd of girls, — 

Not much on dress, perhaps, but strong on records 'nd on curls! 

The which had been identified with Casey in the past, — 

The hosses 'nd the girls, I mean, — and both wuz mighty fast! 

But all these fine attractions wuz of precious little note 

By the side of what wuz offered at Casey's tabble dote. 



CASEY S TABLE D HOTE i 

There wuz half-a-dozen tables altogether in the place, 
And the tax you had to pay upon your vittles wuz a case; 
The boardin'-houses in the camp protested 't wuz a shame 
To patronize a robber, which this Casey wuz the same! 
They said a case was robbery to tax for ary meal; 
But Casey tended strictly to his biz, 'nd let 'em squeal; 
And presently the boardin'-houses all began to bust, 
While Casey kept on sawin' wood 'nd layin' in the dust; 
And oncet a trav'lin' editor from Denver City wrote 
A piece back to his paper, puffin' Casey's tabble dote. 

A tabble dote is different from orderin' aller cart: 

In one case you git all there is, in /' other, only part! 

And Casey's tabble dote began in French, — as all begin, — 

And Casey's ended with the same, which is to say, with "vin"; 

But in between wuz every kind of reptile, bird, 'nd beast, 

The same like you can git in high-toned restauraws down East; 

'Xd windin' up wuz cake or pie, with coffee demy tass, 

Or, sometimes, floatin' Ireland in a soothin' kind of sass 

That left a sort of pleasant ticklin' in a feller's throat, 

'Xd made him hanker after more of Casey's tabble dote. 

The very recollection of them puddin's 'nd them pies 
Brings a yearnin' to my buzzum 'nd the water to my eyes; 
'Nd seems like cookin' nowadays ain't what it used to be 
In camp on Red Hoss Mountain in that year of '63; 
But, maybe, it is better, 'nd, maybe, I'm to blame — 
I'd like to be a-livin' in the mountains jest the same — 
I'd like to live that life again when skies wuz fair 'nd blue, 
When things wuz run wide open 'nd men wuz brave 'nd true; 
When brawny arms the flinty ribs of Red Hoss Mountain smote 
For wherewithal to pay the price of Casey's tabble dote. 

And you, O cherished brother, a-sleepin' 'way out West, 
W r ith Red Hoss Mountain huggin' you close to its lovin' breast,— 
Oh, do you dream in your last sleep of how we used to do, 
Of how we worked our little claims together, me 'nd you ? 
Why, when I saw you last a smile wuz restin' on your face, 
Like you wuz glad to sleep forever in that lonely place; 



WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 



And so you wuz, 'nd I 'd be, too, if I wuz sleepin' so. 
But, bein' how a brother's love ain't for the world to know, 
Whenever I 've this heartache 'nd this chokin' in my throat, 
I lay it all to thinkin' of Casey's tabble dote. 



I 



THE CONVERSAZZHYONY 

What conversazzhyonies wuz I really did not know, 

For that, you must remember, wuz a powerful spell ago; 

The camp wuz new 'nd noisy, 'nd only modrit sized, 

So fashionable sossiety wuz hardly crystallized. 

There had n't been no grand events to interest the men, 

But a lynchin', or a inquest, or a jackpot now an' then. 

The wimmin-folks wuz mighty scarce, for wimmin, ez a rool, 

Don't go to Colorado much, excep' for teachin' school, 

An' bein' scarce an' chipper and pretty (like as not), 

The bachelors perpose, 'nd air acepted on the spot. 

Now Sorry Tom wuz owner uv the Gosh-all-Hemlock mine, 

The wich allowed his better naff to dress all-fired fine; 

For Sorry Tom wuz mighty proud uv her, an' she uv him, 

Though she wuz short an' tacky, an' he wuz tall an' slim, 

An' she wuz edjicated, an' Sorry Tom wuz not, 

Yet, for her sake, he 'd whack up every cussid cent he 'd got/ 

Waal, jest by way uv celebratin' matrimonial joys, 

She thought she 'd give a conversazzhyony to the boys, — 

A peert an' likely lady, 'nd ez full uv 'cute idees 

'Nd uv etiquettish notions ez a fyste is full uv fleas. 

Three-Fingered Hoover kind uv kicked, an' said they might be 

durned 
So far ez any conversazzhyony was concerned; 
He 'd come to Red Hoss Mountain to tunnel for the ore, 
An' not to go to parties, — quite another kind uv bore! 
But, bein' he wuz candidate for marshal uv the camp, 
I rayther had the upper holts in arguin' with the scamp; 



THE CONVERSAZZHYONY 5 

Sez I, "Three-Fingered Hoover, can't ye see it is yer game 
To go for all the votes ye kin an' collar uv the same?" 
The wich perceivin', Hoover sez, "Waal, ef I must, I must; 
So I'll frequent that conversazzhyony, ef I bust!" 

Three-Fingered Hoover wuz a trump! Ez fine a man wuz he 

Ez ever caused a inquest or blossomed on a tree ! — 

A big, broad man, whose face bespoke a honest heart within, — 

With a bunch uv yaller whiskers appertainin' to his chin, 

'Nd a fierce mustache turnt up so fur that both his ears wuz hid, 

Like the picture that you always see in the "Life uv Cap'n Kidd." 

His hair wuz long an' wavy an' fine as Southdown fleece, — 

Oh, it shone an' smelt like Eden when he slicked it down with 

grease ! 
I '11 bet there wuz n't anywhere a man, all round, ez fine 
Ez wuz Three-Fingered Hoover in the spring uv '69! 

The conversazzhyony wuz a notable affair, 

The bong tong deckolett 'nd en regaly bein' there; 

The ranch where Sorry Tom hung out wuz fitted up immense, — 

The Denver papers called it a "palashal residence." 

There wuz mountain pines an' fern an' flowers a-hangin' on the 

walls, 
An' cheers an' hoss-hair sofies wuz a-settin' in the halls; 
An' there wuz heaps uv pictures uv folks that lived down East, 
Sech ez poets an' perfessers, an' last, but not the least, 
Wuz a chromo uv old Fremont, — we liked that best, you bet, 
For there 's lots uv us old miners that is votin' for him yet! 

When Sorry Tom received the gang perlitely at the door, 

He said that keerds would be allowed upon the second floor; 

And then he asked us would we like a drop uv ody vee. 

Connivin' at his meanin', we responded promptly, "Wee." 

A conversazzhyony is a thing where people speak 

The langwidge in the wich they air partickulerly weak : 

"I see," sez Sorry Tom, "you grasp what that 'ere lingo means.". 

"You bet yer boots," sez Hoover; "I've lived at Noo Orleens, 

An', though I ain't no Frenchie, nor kin unto the same, 

I kin parly voo, an' git there, too, like Eli, toot lee mane!" 



D WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

As speakin' French wuz not my forte, — not even oovry poo, — 

I stuck to keerds ez played by them ez did not parly voo, 

An' bein' how that poker wuz my most perficient game, 

I ponyed up for 20 blues an' set into the same. 

Three-Fingered Hoover stayed behind an' parly-vood so well 

That all the kramy delly krame allowed he wuz the belle. 

The other candidate for marshal did n't have a show; 

For, while Three-Fingered Hoover parlyed, ez they said, tray bow, 

Bill Goslin did n't know enough uv French to git along, 

'Nd I reckon that he had what folks might call a movy tong. 

From Denver they had freighted up a real pianny-fort 

Uv the warty-leg and pearl-around-the-keys-an'-kivver sort, 

An', later in the evenin', Perfesser Vere de Blaw 

Performed on that pianny, with considerable eclaw, 

Sech high-toned opry airs ez one is apt to hear, you know, 

When he rounds up down to Denver at a Emmy Abbitt show; 

An' Barber Jim (a talented but ornery galoot) 

Discoursed a obligatter, conny mory, on the floot, 

Till we, ez 1 sot up-stairs indulgin' in a quiet game, 

Conveyed to Barber Jim our wish to compromise the same. 

The maynoo that wuz spread that night wuz mighty hard to beat, — 
Though somewhat awkward to pernounce, it was not so to eat: 
There wuz puddin's, pies, an' sandwidges, an' forty kinds uv sass, 
An' floatin' Ire lands, custards, tarts, an' patty dee foy grass; 
An' millions uv cove oysters wuz a-settin' round in pans, 
'Nd other native fruits an' things that grow out West in cans. 
But I wuz all kufflummuxed when Hoover said he 'd choose 
"Oon peety morso, see voo play, de la cette Charlotte Rooze;" 
I 'd knowed Three-Fingered Hoover for fifteen years or more, 
'Nd I 'd never heern him speak so light uv wimmin folks before! 

Bill Goslin heern him say it, 'nd uv course he spread the news 

Uv how Three-Fingered Hoover had insulted Charlotte Rooze 

At the conversazzhyony down at Sorry Tom's that night, 

An' when they asked me, I allowed that Bill for once wuz right; 

Although it broke my heart to see my friend go up the fluke, 

We all opined his treatment uv the girl deserved rebuke. 

It war n't no use for Sorry Tom to nail it for a lie, — 



PROF. VERE DE BLAW 7 

When it come to sassin' wimmin, there wuz blood in every eye; 
The boom for Charlotte Rooze swep' on an' took the polls by storm, 
An' so Three-Fingered Hoover fell a martyr to reform! 

Three-Fingered Hoover said it was a terrible mistake, 

An* when the votes wuz in, he cried ez if his heart would break. 

We never knew who Charlotte wuz, but Goslin's brother Dick 

Allowed she wuz the teacher from the camp on Roarin' Crick, 

That had come to pass some foreign tongue with them uv our alite 

Ez wuz at the high-toned party down at Sorry Tom's that night. 

We let it drop — this matter uv the lady — there an' then, 

An' we never heerd, nor wanted to, of Charlotte Rooze again, 

An' the Colorado wimmin-folks, ez like ez not, don't know 

How we vindicated all their sex a twenty year ago. 

For in these wondrous twenty years has come a mighty change, 

An' most of them old pioneers have gone acrost the range, 

Way out into the silver land beyond the peaks uv snow, — 

The land uv rest an' sunshine, where all good miners go. 

I reckon they love to look, from out the silver haze, 

Upon that God's own country where they spent sech happy days; 

Upon the noble cities that have risen since they went; 

Upon the camps an' ranches that are prosperous an' content; 

An' best uv all, upon those hills that reach into the air, 

Ez if to clasp the loved ones that are waitin' over there. 



PROF. VERE DE BLAW 

Achievin' sech distinction with his moddel tabble dote 

Ez to make his Red Hoss Mountain restauraw a place uv note, 

Our old friend Casey innovated somewhat round the place, 

In hopes he would ameliorate the sufferin's uv the race; 

'Nd uv the many features Casey managed to import 

The most important wuz a Steenway gran' pianny-fort, 

An' bein' there wuz nobody could play upon the same, 

He telegraffed to Denver, 'nd a real perfesser came, — 

The last an' crownin' glory uv the Casey restauraw 

Wuz that tenderfoot musicianer, Perfesser Vere de Blaw! 



8 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

His hair wuz long an' dishybill, an' he had a yaller skin, 

An' the absence uv a collar made his neck look powerful thin: 

A sorry man he wuz to see, ez mebby you 'd surmise, 

But the fire uv inspiration wuz a-blazin' in his eyes! 

His name wuz Blanc, wich same is Blaw (for that 's what Casey 

said, 
An' Casey passed the French ez well ez any Frenchie bred); 
But no one ever reckoned that it really wuz his name, 
An' no one ever asked him how or why or whence he came, — 
Your ancient history is a thing the Coloradan hates, 
An' no one asks another what his name wuz in the States! 

At evening when the work wuz done, an' the miners rounded up 

At Casey's, to indulge in keerds or linger with the cup, 

Or dally with the tabble dote in all its native glory, 

Perfesser Vere de Blaw discoursed his music repertory 

Upon the Steenway gran' pianny-fort, the wich wuz sot 

In the hallway near the kitchen (a warm but quiet spot), 

An' when De Blaw's environments induced the proper pride, — 

Wich gen' rally wuz whiskey straight, with seltzer on the side, — 

He throwed his soulful bein' into opry airs 'nd things 

Wich bounded to the ceilin' like he 'd mesmerized the strings. 

Oh, you that live in cities where the gran' piannies grow, 

An' primy donnies round up, it 's little that you know 

Uv the hungerin' an' the yearnin' wich us miners an' the rest 

Feel for the songs we used to hear before we moved out West. 

Yes, memory is a pleasant thing, but it weakens mighty quick; 

It kind uv dries an' withers, like the windin' mountain crick, 

That, beautiful, an' singin' songs, goes dancin' to the plains, 

So long ez it is fed by snows an' watered by the rains; 

But, uv that grace uv lovin' rains 'nd mountain snows bereft, - 

Its breachin' rocks, like dummy ghosts, is all its memory left. 

The toons wich the perfesser would perform with sech eclaw 

Would melt the toughest mountain gentleman I ever saw, — 

Sech touchin' opry music ez the Trovytory sort, 

The solium "Mizer Reery," an' the thrillin' "Keely Mort"; 

Or, sometimes, from "Lee Grond Dooshess" a trifle he would play, 

Or morsoze from a' opry boof, to drive dull care away; 



PROF. VERE DE BLAW 9 

Or, feelin' kind uv serious, he 'd discourse somewhat in C, — 
The wich he called a' opus (whatever that may be); 
But the toons that fetched the likker from the critics in the crowd 
Wuz not the high-toned ones, Perfesser Vere de Blaw allowed. 

'T wuz "Dearest May," an' "Bonnie Doon," an' the ballard 

uv "Ben Bolt," 
Ez wuz regarded by all odds ez Vere de Blaw's best holt; 
Then there wuz "Darlin' Nellie Gray," an' "Settin' on the Stile," 
An' "Seein' Nellie Home," an' "Nancy Lee," 'nd "Annie Lisle," 
An' "Silver Threads among the Gold," an' "The Gal that Winked 

at Me," 
An' "Gentle Annie," "Nancy Till," an' "The Cot beside the Sea." 
Your opry airs is good enough for them ez likes to pay 
Their money for the truck ez can't be got no other way; 
But opry to a miner is a thin an' holler thing, — 
The music that he pines for is the songs he used to sing. 

One evenin' down at Casey's De Blaw wuz at his best, 
With four-fingers uv old Wilier- run concealed beneath his vest; 
The boys wuz settin' all around, discussin' folks an' things, 
'Nd I had drawed the necessary keerds to fill on kings; 
Three-Fingered Hoover kind uv leaned acrost the bar to say 
If Casey 'd liquidate right off, he 'd liquidate next day; 
A sperrit uv contentment wuz a-broodin' all around 
(Onlike the other sperrits wich in restauraws abound), 
When, suddenly, we heerd from yonder kitchen-entry rise 
A toon each ornery galoot appeared to recognize. 

Perfesser Vere de Blaw for once eschewed his opry ways, 

An' the remnants uv his mind went back to earlier, happier days, 

An' grappled like an' wrassled with a' old familiar air 

The wich we all uv us had heern, ez you have, everywhere! 

Stock still we stopped, — some in their talk uv politics an' things, 

I in my unobtrusive attempt to fill on kings, 

'Nd Hoover leanin' on the bar, an' Casey at the till, — 

We all stopped short an' held our breaths (ez a feller sometimes 

will), 
An' sot there more like bumps on logs than healthy, husky men, 
Ez the memories uv that old, old toon come sneakin' back again. 



10 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

You 've guessed it ? No, you hav n't; for it wuzn 't that there song 
Uv the home we 'd been away from an' had hankered for so 

long,— 
No, sir; it wuz n't "Home, Sweet Home," though it's always 

heard around 
Sech neighborhoods in wich the home that is " sweet home" is 

found. 
And, ez for me, I seemed to see the past come back again, 
And hear the deep-drawed sigh my sister Lucy uttered when 
Her mother asked her if she 'd practised her two hours that day, 
Wich, if she had n't she must go an' do it right away! 
The homestead in the States 'nd all its memories seemed to come 
A-floatin' round about me with that magic lumty-tum. 

And then uprose a stranger wich had struck the camp that night; 

His eyes wuz sot an' fireless, 'nd his face wuz spookish white, 

'Nd he sez: "Oh, how I suffer there is nobody kin say, 

Onless, like me, he 's wrenched himself from home an' friends away 

To seek surcease from sorrer in a fur, seclooded spot, 

Only to find — alars, too late! — the wich surcease is not! 

Only to find that there air things that, somehow, seem to live 

For nothin' in the world but jest the misery they give! 

I 've travelled eighteen hundred miles, but that toon has got here 

first; 
I 'm done, — I 'm blowed, — I welcome death, an' bid it do its 

worst!" 

Then, like a man whose mind wuz sot on yieldin' to his fate, 
He waltzed up to the counter an' demanded whiskey straight, 
Wich havin' got outside uv, — both the likker and the door, — 
We never seen that stranger in the bloom uv health no more! 
But some months later, what the birds had left uv him wuz found 
Associated with a tree, some distance from the ground ; 
And Husky Sam, the coroner, that set upon him, said 
That two things wuz apparent, namely: first, deceast wuz dead; 
And, second, previously had got involved beyond all hope 
In a knotty complication with a yard or two uv rope! 



OUR LADY OF THE MINE 11 



OUR LADY OF THE MINE 

The Blue Horizon wuz a mine us fellers all thought well uv, 
And there befell the episode I now perpose to tell uv; 
'T wuz in the year uv sixty-nine, — somewhere along in summer, — 
There hove in sight one afternoon a new and curious comer; 
His name wuz Silas Pettibone, — a' artist by perfession, — 
With a kit of tools and a big mustache and a pipe in his possession. 
He told us, by our leave, he 'd kind uv like to make some sketches 
Uv the snowy peaks, 'nd the foamin' crick, 'nd the distant mountain 

stretches ; 
"You 're welkim, sir," sez we, although this scenery dodge seemed 

to us 
A waste uv time where scenery wuz already sooper-^oo-us. 

All through the summer Pettibone kep' busy at his sketchin', — 
At daybreak off for Eagle Pass, and home at nightfall, fetchin' 
That everlastin' book uv his with spider-lines all through it; 
Three-Fingered Hoover used to say there war n't no meanin' to it. 
"Gol durn a man," sez he to him, "whose shif'less hand is sot at 
A-drawin' hills that 's full uv quartz that's pinin' to be got at!" 
"Go on," sez Pettibone, "go on, if joshin' gratifies ye; 
But one uv these fine times I '11 show ye sumthin' will surprise ye! " 
The which remark led us to think — although he did n't say it — 
That Pettibone wuz owin' us a gredge 'nd meant to pay it. 

One evenin' as we sat around the Restauraw de Casey, 
A-singin' songs 'nd tellin' yarns the which wuz sumwhat racy, 
In come that feller Pettibone, 'nd sez, "With your permission, 
I 'd like to put a picture I have made on exhibition." 
He sot the picture on the bar 'nd drew aside its curtain, 
Sayin', "I reckon you '11 allow as how that 's art, f'r certain!" 
And then we looked, with jaws agape, but nary word wuz spoken, 
And f'r a likely spell the charm uv silence wuz unbroken — 
Till presently, as in a dream, remarked Three-Fingered Hoover: 
"Onless I am mistaken, this is Pettibone's shef dooverP' 

It wuz a face — a human face — a woman's, fair 'nd tender — 
Sot gracefully upon a neck white as a swan's, and slender; 



12 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

The hair wuz kind uv sunny, 'nd the eyes wuz sort uv dreamy, 
The mouth wuz half a-smilin', 'nd the cheeks wuz soft 'nd creamy; 
It seemed like she wuz lookin' off into the west out yonder, 
And seemed like, while she looked, we saw her eyes grow softer, 

fonder, — 
Like, lookin' off into the west, where mountain mists wuz fallin', 
She saw the face she longed to see and heerd his voice a-callin'; 
"Hooray!" we cried, — "a woman in the camp uv Blue Horizon! 
Step right up, Colonel Pettibone, 'nd nominate your pizen!" 

A curious situation, — one deservin' uv your pity, — 

No human, livin', female thing this side of Denver City! 

But jest a lot uv husky men that lived on sand 'nd bitters, — 

Do you wonder that that woman's face consoled the lonesome 

critters ? 
And not a one but what it served in some way to remind him 
Of a mother or a sister or a sweetheart left behind him; 
And some looked back on happier days, and saw the old-time faces 
And heerd the dear familiar sounds in old familiar places, — 
A gracious touch of home. "Look here," sez Hoover, "ever'body 
Quit thinkin' 'nd perceed at oncet to name his favorite toddy!" 

It wuz n't long afore the news had spread the country over, 

And miners come a-flockin' in like honey-bees to clover; 

It kind uv did 'em good, they said, to feast their hungry eyes on 

That picture uv Our Lady in the camp uv Blue Horizon. 

But one mean cuss from Nigger Crick passed criticisms on 'er, — 

Leastwise we overheerd him call her Pettibone's madonner, . 

The which we did not take to be respectful to a lady, 

So we hung him in a quiet spot that wuz cool 'nd dry 'nd shady; 

Which same might not have been good law, but it wuz the right 

manoeuvre 
To give the critics due respect for Pettibone's shef doover. 

Gone is the camp, — yes, years ago the Blue Horizon busted, 
And every mother's son uv us got up one day 'nd dusted, 
While Pettibone perceeded East with wealth in his possession, 
And went to Yurrup, as I heered, to study his perfession; 
So, like as not, you'll find him now a-paintin' heads 'nd faces 
At Venus, Billy Florence, and the like I-talyun places. 



MODJESKY AS CAMEEL ^13 

But no sech face he '11 paint again as at old Blue Horizon, 
For I '11 allow no sweeter face no human soul sot eyes on; 
And when the critics talk so grand uv Paris 'nd the Loover, 
I say, "Oh, but you orter seen the Pettibone shef doover!" 



MODJESKY AS CAMEEL 

Afore we went to Denver we had heerd the Tabor Grand, 

Allowed by critics ez the finest opry in the land; 

And, roundin' up at Denver in the fall of '81, 

Well heeled in p'int uv looker 'nd a-pinin' for some fun, 

We told Bill Bush that we wuz fixed quite comf'table for wealth, 

And had n't struck that altitood entirely for our health. 

You see we knew Bill Bush at Central City years ago; 

(An' a whiter man than that same Bill you could not wish to 

know !) 
Bill run the Grand for Tabor, 'nd he gin us two a deal 
Ez how we really otter see Modjesky ez Cameel. 

Three-Fingered Hoover stated that he'd great deal ruther go 

To call on Charley Simpson than frequent a' opry show. 

"The queen uv tragedy," sez he, "is wot I 've never seen, 

And I reckon there is more for me in some other kind uv queen." 

"Git out!" sez Bill, disgusted-like, "and can't you never find 

A pleasure in the things uv life wich ellervates the mind ? 

You 've set around in Casey's restauraw a year or more, 

An' heerd ol' Vere de Blaw perform shef doovers by the score, 

Only to come down here among us tong an' say you feel 

You 'd ruther take in faro than a' opry like 'Cameel'!" 

But it seems it wur n't no opry, but a sort uv foreign play, 
With a heap uv talk an' dressin' that wuz both dekollytay. 
A young chap sparks a gal, who 's caught a dook that 's old an' 

wealthy,— 
She has a cold 'nd faintin' fits, and is gin'rally onhealthy. 
She says she has a record; but the young chap does n't mind, 
And it looks ez if the feller wuz a proper likely kind 



14 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

Until his old man sneaks around 'nd makes a dirty break, 
And the young one plays the sucker 'nd gives the girl the shake. 
"Armo! Armo!" she hollers; but he flings her on the floor, 
And says he ain'ter goin' to have no truck with her no more. 

At that Three-Fingered Hoover says, "1 11 chip into this game, 

And see if Red Hoss Mountain cannot reconstruct the same. 

I won't set by an' see the feelin's uv a lady hurt, — 

Gol durn a critter, anyhow, that does a woman dirt!" 

He riz up like a giant in that little painted pen, 

And stepped upon the platform with the women-folks 'nd men; 

Across the trough of gaslights he bounded like a deer, 

An' grabbed Armo an' hove him through the landscape in the 

rear; 
And then we seen him shed his hat an' reverently kneel, 
An' put his strong arms tenderly around the gal Cameel. 

A-standin' in his stockin' feet, his height wuz siz foot three, 
And a huskier man than Hoover wuz you could not hope to see. 
He downed Lafe Dawson wrasslin' ; and one night I seen him lick 
Three Cornish miners that come into camp from Roarin' Crick 
To clean out Casey's restauraw an' do the town, they said. 
He could whip his weight in wildcats, an' paint whole townships red, 
But good to helpless folks and weak, — a brave and manly heart 
A cyclone could n't phase, but any child could rend apart; 
Jest like the mountain pine, wich dares the storm that howls 

along, 
But rocks the winds uv summer-time, an' sings a soothin' song. 

"Cameel," sez he, "your record is ag'in you, I '11 allow, 

But, bein' you 're a woman, you '11 git justice anyhow; 

So, if you say you're sorry, and intend to travel straight, — 

Why, never mind that other chap with which you meant to mate, — 

I'll marry you myself, and take you back to-morrow night 

To the camp on Red Hoss Mountain, where the boys '11 treat you 

white, 
Where Casey runs a tabble dote, and folks are brave 'nd true, 
Where there ain't no ancient history to bother me or you, 
Where there ain't no law but honesty, no evidence but facts, 
Where between the verdick and the rope there ain't no outer acts." 



MODJESKY AS CAMEEL 15 

I wuz mighty proud of Hoover; but the folks began to shout 
That the feller was intrudin', and would some one put him out. 
"Well, no; I reckon not," says I, or words to that effect, 
Ez I perduced a' argument I thought they might respect, — 
A long an' harnsome weepon I 'd pre-empted when I come 
Out West (its cartridges wuz big an' juicy ez a plum), 
Wich, when persented properly, wuz very apt to sway 
The popular opinion in a most persuasive way. 
"Well, no; I reckon not," says I; but I did n't say no more, 
Observin' that there wuz a gin'ral movement towards the door. 

First Dr. Lemen he allowed that he had got to go 

And see a patient he jest heerd wuz lyin' very low; 

An' Charlie Toll riz up an' said he guessed he 'd jine the Dock, 

An' go to see a client wich wuz waitin' round the blocks 

John Arkins reckollected he had interviews to write, 

And previous engagements hurried Cooper from our sight; 

Cal Cole went out to buy a hoss, Fred Skiff and Belford too; 

And Stapleton remembered he had heaps uv work to do. 

Somehow or other every one wuz full uv business then; 

Leastwise, they all vamoosed, and did n't bother us again. 

I reckollect that Willard Morse an' Bush come runnin' in, 
A-hollerin', "Oh, wot two idiots you durned fools have been!" 
I reckollect that they allowed we 'd made a big mistake, — 
They otter knowed us tenderfoots wuz sure to make a break! 
An', while Modjesky stated we wuz somewhat off our base, 
I half opined she liked it, by the look upon her face. 
I reckollect that Hoover regretted he done wrong 
In throwin' that there actor through a vista ten miles long. 
I reckollect we all shuck hands, and ordered vin frappay, — 
And I never shall forget the head I had on me next day! 

I have n't seen Modjesky since; I 'm hopin' to again. 
She 's goin' to show in Denver soon; I '11 go to see her then. 
An' may be I shall speak to her, wich if I do 't will be 
About the old friend restin' by the mighty Western sea, — 
A simple man, perhaps, but good ez gold and true ez steel; 
He could whip his weight in wildcats, and you never heerd him 
squeal ; 



16 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

Good to the helpless an' the weak; a brave an' manly heart 
A cyclone could n't phase, but any child could rend apart; 
So like the mountain pine, that dares the storm wich sweeps along, 
But rocks the winds uv summer-time, an' sings a soothin' song. 



MARTHY'S YOUNKIT 

The mountain brook sung lonesomelike, and loitered on its way 
Ez if it waited for a child to jine it in its play; 
The wild-flowers uv the hillside bent down their heads to hear 
The music uv the little feet that had somehow grown so dear; 
The magpies, like winged shadders, wuz a-flutterin' to an' fro 
Among the rocks an' holler stumps in the ragged gulch below; 
The pines an' hemlocks tosst their boughs (like they wuz arms) and 

made 
Soft, solium music on the slope where he had often played; 
But for these lonesome, solium voices on the mountain-side, 
There wuz no sound the summer day that Marthy's younkit died. 

We called him Marthy's younkit, for Marthy wuz the name 
Uv her ez wuz his mar, the wife uv Sorry Tom, — the same 
Ez taught the school-house on the hill, way back in '69, 
When she marr'd Sorry Tom, wich owned the Gosh-all-Hemlock 

mine! 
And Marthy's younkit wuz their first, wich, bein' how it meant 
The first on Red Hoss Mountain, wuz truly a' event! 
The miners sawed off short on work ez soon ez they got word 
That Dock Devine allowed to Casey what had just occurred; 
We loaded up an' whooped around until we all wuz hoarse 
Salutin' the arrival, wich weighed ten pounds, uv course! 

Three years, and sech a pretty child! — his mother's counterpart! 
Three years, an' sech a holt ez he had got on every heart — 
A peert an' likely little tyke with hair ez red ez gold, 
A-laughin', toddlin' everywhere, — 'nd only three years old! 
Up yonder, sometimes, to the store, an' sometimes down the hill 
He kited (boys is boys, you know, — you could n't keep him still!) 



marthy's younkit 17 

An' there he 'd play beside the brook where purpul wild-flowers 

grew, 
An' the mountain pines an' hemlocks a kindly shadder threw, 
An' sung soft, solium toons to him, while in the gulch below 
The magpies, like strange sperrits, went flutterin' to an' fro. 

Three years, an' then the fever come, — it wuz n't right, you know, 
With all us old ones in the camp, for that little child to go; 
It 's right the old should die, but that a harmless little child 
Should miss the joy uv life an' love, — that can't be reconciled! 
That 's what we thought that summer day, an' that is what we 

said 
Ez we looked upon the piteous face uv Marthy's younkit dead. 
But for his mother's sobbin', the house wuz very still, 
An' Sorry Tom wuz lookin', through the winder, down the hill, 
To the patch beneath the hemlocks where his darlin' used to play, 
An' the mountain brook sung lonesomelike an' loitered on its way. 

A preacher come from Roarin' Crick to comfort 'em an' pray, 
'Nd all the camp wuz present at the obsequies next day; 
A female teacher staged it twenty miles to sing a hymn, 
An' we jined her in the chorus, — big, husky men an' grim 
Sung "Jesus, Lover uv my Soul," an' then the preacher prayed, 
An' preacht a sermon on the death uv that fair blossom laid 
Among them other flowers he loved, — wich sermon set sech 

weight 
On sinners bein' always heeled against the future state, 
That, though it had been fashionable to swear a perfec' streak, 
There war n't no swearin' in the camp for pretty nigh a week! 

Last thing uv all, four strappin' men took up the little load 

An' bore it tenderly along the windin', rocky road, 

To where the coroner had dug a grave beside the brook, 

In sight uv Marthy's winder, where the same could set an' look 

An' wonder if his cradle in that green patch, long an' wide, 

Wuz ez soothin' ez the cradie that wuz empty at her side; 

An' wonder if the mournful songs the pines wuz singin' then 

Wuz ez tender ez the lullabies she 'd never sing again, 

'Nd if the bosom of the earth in wich he lay at rest 

Wuz half ez lovin' 'nd ez warm ez wuz his mother's breast. 



18 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

The camp is gone; but Red Hoss Mountain rears its kindly 

head, 
An' looks down, sort uv tenderly, upon its cherished dead; 
'Nd I reckon that, through all the years, that little boy wich 

died 
Sleeps sweetly an' contentedly upon the mountain-side; 
That the wild-flowers uv the summer-time bend down their heads 

to hear 
The footfall uv a little friend they know not slumbers near; 
That the magpies on the solium rocks strange flutterin' shadders 

make, 
An' the pines an' hemlocks wonder that the sleeper does n't wake; 
That the mountain brook sings lonesomelike an' loiters on its 

. Way 
Ez if it waited for a child to jine it in its play. 



MADGE: YE HOYDEN 



At Madge, ye hoyden, gossips scofft, 
Ffor that a romping wench was shee — 

"Now marke this rede," they bade her oft, 
"Forsooken sholde your folly bee!" 

But Madge, ye hoyden, laught & cried, 
"Oho, oho," in girlish glee, 

And noe thing mo replied. 



No griffe she had nor knew no care, 
But gayly rompit all daies long, 

And, like ye brooke that everywhere 
Goes jinking with a gladsome song, 

Shee danct and songe from morn till night,- 
Her gentil harte did know no wrong, 

Nor did she none despight, 



MADGE: YE HOYDEN 19 

III 

Sir Tomas from his noblesse halle 

Did trend his path a somer's daye, 
And to ye hoyden he did call 

And these ffull evill words did say: 
"O wolde you weare a silken gown 

And binde your haire with ribands gay ? 
Then come with me to town!" 



IV 



But Madge, ye hoyden, shoke her head, — 

"He be no lemman unto thee 
For all your golde and gownes," shee said, 

"ffor Robin hath bespoken mee." 
Then ben Sir Tomas sore despight, 

And back unto his hall went hee 
With face as ashen white. 



"O Robin, wilt thou wed this girl, 
Whenas she is so vaine a sprite?" 

So spak ffull many an envious churle 
Unto that curteyse countrie wight. 

But Robin did not pay no heede; 
And they ben wed a somer night 

& danct upon ye meade. 



Then scarse ben past a yeare & daye 
Whan Robin toke unto his bed, 

And long, long time therein he lay, 
Nor colde not work to earn his bread; 

in soche an houre, whan times ben sore, 
Sr. Tomas came with haughtie tread 

& knockit at ye doore. 



20 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 



VII 



Saies: "Madge, ye hoyden, do you know 
how that you once despighted me? 

But He forgiff an you will go 

my swete harte lady ffor to bee!" 

But Madge, ye hoyden, heard noe more, — 
straightway upon her heele turnt shee, 

& shote ye cottage doore. 

VIII 

Soe Madge, ye hoyden, did her parte 
whiles that ye years did come and go; 

't was somer ahwais in her harte, 

tho' winter strewed her head with snowe. 

She toilt and span thro' all those years 
nor bid repine that it ben soe, 

nor never shad noe teares. 



IX 



Whiles Robin lay within his bed, 

A divell came and whispered lowe, — 

"Giff you will doe my will," he said, 

"None more of sickness you shall knowe!" 

Ye which gave joy to Robin's soul — : 
Saies Robin: "Divell, be it soe, 

an that you make me whoale!" 



That day, upp rising ffrom his bed, 
Quoth Robin: "I am well again!" 

& backe he came as from ye dead, 
& he ben mickle blithe as when 

he wooed his doxy long ago; 

& Madge did make ado & then 

Her teares ffor joy did flowe. 



MADGE: YE HOYDEN 21 



XI 



Then came that hell-born cloven thing — 
Saies: "Robin, I do claim your life, 

and I hencefoorth shall be your king, 
and you shall do my evill strife. 

Look round about and you shall see 
sr. Tomas' young and ffoolish wiffe — 

a comely dame is shee!" 



XII 

Ye divell had him in his power, 
and not colde Robin say thereto: 

Soe Robin from that very houre 
did what that divell bade him do; 

He wooed and dipt, and on a daye 
sr. Tomas' wife and Robin flewe 

a many leagues away. 

XIII 

Sir Tomas ben wood wroth and swore, 
And sometime strode thro' leaf & brake 

and knockit at ye cottage door 

and thus to Madge, ye hoyden, spake: 

Saies, "I wolde have you ffor mine own, 
So come with mee & bee my make, 

syn tother birds ben flown." 

XIV 

But Madge, ye hoyden, bade him noe; 

Saies: "Robin is my swete harte still, 
And, tho' he doth despight me soe, 

I mean to do him good for ill. 
So goe, Sir Tomas, goe your way; 

ffor whiles I bee on live I will 
ffor Robin's coming pray!" 



22 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 



XV 



Soe Madge, ye hoyden, kneelt & prayed 
that Godde sholde send her Robin backe. 

And tho' ye folke vast scoffing made, 

and tho' ye worlde ben colde and blacke, 

And tho', as moneths dragged away, 
ye hoyden's harte ben like to crack 

With griff, she still did praye. 

XVI 

Sicke of that divell's damned charmes, 
Aback did Robin come at last, 

And Madge, ye hoyden, sprad her arms 
and gave a cry and held him fast; 

And as she clong to him and cried, 
her patient harte with joy did brast, 

& Madge, ye hoyden, died. 



THE BIBLIOMANIAC'S PRAYER 

Keep me, I pray, in wisdom's way 

That I may truths eternal seek; 
I need protecting care to-day, — 

My purse is light, my flesh is weak. 
So banish from my erring heart 

All baleful appetites and hints 
Of Satan's fascinating art, 

Of first editions, and of prints. 
Direct me in some godly walk 

Which leads away from bookish strife, 
That I with pious deed and talk 

May extra-illustrate my life. 

But if, O Lord, it pleaseth Thee 
To keep me in temptation's way, 

I humbly ask that I may be 
Most notably beset to-day; 



THE TRUTH ABOUT HORACE 23 

Let my temptation be a book, 

Which I shall purchase, hold, and keep, 
Whereon when other men shall look, 

They '11 wail to know I got it cheap. 
Oh, let it such a volume be 

As in rare copperplates abounds, 
Large paper, clean, and fair to see, 

Uncut, unique, unknown to Lowndes. 



THE TRUTH ABOUT HORACE 

It is very aggravating 

To hear the solemn prating 

Of the fossils who are stating 

That old Horace was a prude; 
When we know that with the ladies 
He was always raising Hades, 
And with many an escapade his 

Best productions are imbued. 

There 's really not much harm in a 
Large number of his carmina, 
But these people find alarm in a 

Few records of his acts; 
So they 'd squelch the muse caloric, 
And to students sophomoric 
They 'd present as metaphoric 

What old Horace meant for facts. 

We have always thought 'em lazy; 
Now we adjudge 'em crazy! 
Why, Horace was a daisy 

That was very much alive! 
And the wisest of us know him 
As his Lydia verses show him, — 
Go, read that virile poem, — 

It is No. 25. 



24 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

He was a very owl, sir, 

And starting out to prowl, sir, 

You bet he made Rome howl, sir, 

Until he filled his date; 
With a massic-laden ditty 
And a classic maiden pretty 
He painted up the city, 

And Maecenas paid the freight! 



OUR TWO OPINIONS 

Us two wuz boys when we fell out, — 

Nigh to the age uv my youngest now; 
Don't rec'lect what 't wuz about, 

Some small deeff'rence, I '11 allow. 
Lived next neighbors twenty years, 

A-hatin' each other, me 'nd Jim, — 
He havin' his opinyin uv me, 

'Nd I havin' my opinyin uv him. 

Grew up together 'nd would n't speak, 

Courted sisters, 'nd marr'd 'em, too; 
'Tended same meetin'-house oncet a week, 

A-hatin' each other through 'nd through! 
But when Abe Linkern asked the West 

F'r soldiers, we answered, — me 'nd Jim, — 
He havin' his opinyin uv me, 

'Nd I havin' my opinyin uv him. 

But down in Tennessee one night 

Ther' wuz sound uv firin' fur away, 
'Nd the sergeant allowed ther' 'd be a fight 

With the Johnnie Rebs some time nex' day: 
'Nd as I wuz thinkin' uv Lizzie 'nd home 

Jim stood afore me, long 'nd slim, — 
He havin' his opinyin uv me, 

'Nd / havin' my opinyin uv him. 



LITTLE MACK 25 

Seemed like we knew there wuz goin' to be 

Serious trouble f'r me 'nd him; 
Us two shuck hands, did Jim 'nd me, 

But never a word from me or Jim! 
He went his way 'nd / went mine, 

'Nd into the battle's roar went we, — 
I havin' my opinyin uv Jim, 

'Nd he havin' his opinyin uv me. 

Jim never come back from the war again, 

But I hain't forgot that last, last night 
When, waitin' f'r orders, us two men 

Made up 'nd shuck hands, afore the fight. 
'Nd, after it all, it 's soothin' to know 

That here I be 'nd yonder 's Jim, — 
He havin' his opinyin uv me, 

'Nd I havin' my opinyin uv him. 



LITTLE MACK 

This talk about the journalists that run the East is bosh, 
We 've got a Western editor that's little, but, O gosh ! 
He lives here in Mizzoora where the people are so set 
In ante-bellum notions that they vote for Jackson yet; 
But the paper he is running makes the rusty fossils swear, — 
The smartest, likeliest paper that is printed anywhere! 
And, best of all, the paragraphs are pointed as a tack, 
And that 's because they emanate 
From little Mack. 

In architecture he is what you'd call a chunky man, 
As if he 'd been constructed on the summer cottage plan; 
He has a nose like Bonaparte; and round his mobile mouth 
Lies all the sensuous languor of the children of the South; 
His dealings with reporters who affect a weekly bust 
Have given to his violet eyes a shadow of distrust; 
In glorious abandon his brown hair wanders back 
From the grand W r ebsterian forehead 
Of little Mack. 



26 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

No matter what the item is, if there 's an item in it, 
You bet your life he 's on to it and nips it in a minute! 
From multifarious nations, countries, monarchies, and lands, 
From Afric's sunny fountains and India's coral strands, 
From Greenland's icy mountains and Siloam's shady rills, 
He gathers in his telegrams, and Houser pays the bills; 
What though there be a dearth of news, he has a happy knack 
Of scraping up a lot of scoops, 
Does little Mack. 

And learning? Well he knows the folks of every tribe and age 
That ever played a part upon this fleeting human stage; 
His intellectual system 's so extensive and so greedy 
That, when it comes to records, he 's a walkin' cyclopedy; 
For having studied (and digested) all the books a-goin', 
It stands to reason he must know about all 's worth a-knowin' ! 
So when a politician with a record 's on the track, 
We 're apt to hear some history 
From little Mack. 

And when a fellow-journalist is broke and needs a twenty, 
Who 's alius ready to whack up a portion of his plenty ? 
Who 's alius got a wallet that 's as full of sordid gain 
As his heart is full of kindness and his head is full of brain? 
Whose bowels of compassion will in-va-ri-a-bly move 
Their owner to those courtesies which plainly, surely prove 
That he 's the kind of person that never does go back 
On a fellow that 's in trouble? 
Why, little Mack! 

I've heard 'em tell of Dana, and of Bonner, and of Reid, 

Of Johnnie Cockerill, who, I '11 own, is very smart indeed; 

Yet I don't care what their renown or influence may be, 

One metropolitan exchange is quite enough for me! 

So keep your Danas, Bonners, Reids, your Cockerills, and the 

rest, 
The woods is full of better men all through this woolly West; 
For all that sleek, pretentious, Eastern editorial pack 
We would n't swap the shadow of 
Our little Mack! 



TO ROBIN GOODFELLOW 27 



TO ROBIN GOODFELLOW 

I see you, Maister Bawsy-brown, 

Through yonder lattice creepin'; 
You come for cream and to gar me dream, 

But you dinna find me sleepin'. 
The moonbeam, that upon the floor 

Wi' crickets ben a-jinkin', 
Now steals away fra' her bonnie play — 

Wi' a rosier blie, I 'm thinkin'. 

I saw you, Maister Bawsy-brown, 

When the blue bells went a-ringin' 
For the merrie fays o' the banks an' braes, 

And I kenned your bonnie singin'; 
The gowans gave you honey sweets, 

And the posies on the heather 
Dript draughts o' dew for the faery crew 

That danct and sang together. 

But posie-bloom an' simmer-dew 

And ither sweets o' faery 
C'u'd na gae down wi' Bawsy-brown, 

Sae nigh to Maggie's dairy! 
My pantry shelves, sae clean and white, 

Are set wi' cream and cheeses, — 
Gae, gin you will, an' take your fill 

Of whatsoever pleases. 

Then wave your wand aboon my een 

Until they close awearie, 
And the night be past sae sweet and fast 

Wi' dreamings o' my dearie. 
But pinch the w T ench in yonder room, 

For she 's na gude nor bonnie, — 
Her shelves be dust and her pans be rust, 

And she winkit at my Johnnie! 



28 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

APPLE-PIE AND CHEESE 

Full many a sinful notion 

Conceived of foreign powers 
Has come across the ocean 

To harm this land of ours; 
And heresies called fashions 

Have modesty effaced, 
And baleful, morbid passions 

Corrupt our native taste. 

temporal O mores! 
What profanations these 

That seek to dim the glories 
Of apple-pie and cheese! 

1 'm glad my education 

Enables me to stand 
Against the vile temptation 

Held out on every hand; 
Eschewing all the tittles 

With vanity replete, 
I 'm loyal to the victuals 

Our grandsires used to eat! 
I 'm glad I 've got three willing boys 

To hang around and tease 
Their mother for the filling joys 

Of apple-pie and cheese! 

Your flavored creams and ices 

And your dainty angel-food 
Are mighty fine devices 

To regale the dainty dude; 
Your terrapin and oysters, 

With wine to wash 'em down, 
Are just the thing for roisters 

When painting of the town; 
No flippant, sugared notion 

Shall my appetite appease, 
Or bate my soul's devotion 

To apple-pie and cheese! 



APPLE-PIE AND CHEESE 29 

The pie my Julia makes me 

(God bless her Yankee ways!) 
On memory's pinions takes me 

To dear Green Mountain days; 
And seems like I see Mother 

Lean on the window-sill, 
A-handin' me and brother 

What she knows '11 keep us still; 
And these feelings are so grateful, 

Says I, "Julia, if you please, 
I '11 take another plateful 

Of that apple-pie and cheese!" 



And cheese! No alien it, sir, 

That 's brought across the sea,- 
No Dutch antique, nor Switzer, 

Nor glutinous de Brie; 
There 's nothing I abhor so 

As mawmets of this ilk — ■ 
Give me the harmless morceau 

That 's made of true-blue milk! 
No matter what conditions 

Dyspeptic come to feaze, 
The best of all physicians 

Is apple-pie and cheese! 



Though ribalds may decry 'em, 

For these twin boons we stand, 
Partaking thrice per diem 

Of their fulness out of hand; 
No enervating fashion 

Shall cheat us of our right 
To gratify our passion 

With a mouthful at a bite! 
We '11 cut it square or bias, 

Or any way we please, 
And faith shall justify us 

When we carve our pie and cheese! 



30 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

De gustibus, 't is stated, 

Non disputandum est. 
Which meaneth, when translated, 

That all is for the best. 
So let the foolish choose 'em 

The vapid sweets of sin, 
I will not disabuse 'em 

Of the heresy they 're in; 
N But I, when I undress me 

Each night, upon my knees 
Will ask the Lord to bless me 

With apple-pie and cheese! 



THE LITTLE PEACH 

A little peach in the orchard grew, — 

A little peach of emerald hue; 
Warmed by the sun and wet by the dew, 
It grew. 

One day, passing that orchard through, 
That little peach dawned on the view 
Of Johnny Jones and his sister Sue — 
Them two. 

Up at that peach a club they threw — 
Down from the stem on which it grew 
Fell that/peach of emerald hue. 
Mon Dieu! 

John took a bite and Sue a chew, 
And then the trouble began to brew, — 
Trouble the doctor could n't subdue. 
Too true! 

Under the turf where the daisies grew 
They planted John and his sister Sue, 
And their little souls to the angels flew, — 
Boo hoo! 



THE DIVINE LULLABY 31 

What of that peach of the emerald hue, 
Warmed by the sun, and wet by the dew? 
Ah, well, its mission on earth is through. 

Adieu ! 
1880 



THE DIVINE LULLABY 

I hear Thy voice, dear Lord; 
I hear it by the stormy sea 

W T hen winter nights are black and wild, 
And when, affright, I call to Thee; 
It calms my fears and whispers me, 

" Sleep well, my child." 

I hear Thy voice, dear Lord, 
In singing winds, in falling snow, 

The curfew chimes, the midnight bell. 
"Sleep well, my child," it murmurs low; 
"The guardian angels come and go, — 

child, sleep well!" 

1 hear Thy voice, dear Lord, 

Ay, though the singing winds be stilled, 

Though hushed the tumult of the deep, 
My fainting heart with anguish chilled 
By Thy assuring tone is thrilled, — 
"Fear not, and sleep!" 

Speak on — speak on, dear Lord! 
And when the last dread night is near, 

With doubts and fears and terrors wild, 
Oh, let my soul expiring hear 
Onlv these words of heavenly cheer, 

"Sleep well, my child!" 



32 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 



DE AMICITIIS 



Though care and strife 

Elsewhere be rife, 
Upon my word I do not heed 'em; 

In bed I lie 

With books hard by, 
And with increasing- zest I read 'em. 



i & 



Propped up in bed, 

So much I 've read 
Of musty tomes that I 've a headful 

Of tales and rhymes 
• Of ancient times, 
Which, wife declares, are ''simply dreadful!" 

They give me joy 

Without alloy; 
And is n't that what books are made for ? 

And yet — and yet — 

(Ah, vain regret!) 
I would to God they all were paid for! 

No festooned cup 

Filled foaming up 
Can lure me elsewhere to confound me; 

Sweeter than wine 

This love of mine 
For these old books I see around me! 



A plague, I say, 

On maidens gay; 
I '11 weave no compliments to tell 'em! 

Vain fool I were, 

Did I prefer 
Those dolls to these old friends in vellum! 



DE AMICITIIS 33 

At dead of night 

My chamber 's bright 
Not only with the gas that 's burning, 

But with the glow 

Of long ago, — 
Of beauty back from eld returning. 

Fair women's looks 

I see in books, 
I see them, and I hear their laughter,— 

Proud, high-born maids, 

Unlike the jades 
Which men-folk now go chasing after! 

Herein again 

Speak valiant men 
Of all nativities and ages; 

I hear and smile 

With rapture while 
I turn these musty, magic pages. 

The sword, the lance, 

The morris dance, 
The highland song, the greenwood ditty, 

Of these I read, 

Or, when the need, 
My Miller grinds me grist that 's gritty! 

When of such stuff 

We 've had enough, 
Why, there be other friends to greet us; 

We '11 moralize 

In solemn wise 
With Plato or with Epictetus. 

Sneer as you may, 
I 'm proud to say 
That I, for one, am very grateful 



34 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

To Heaven, that sends 
These genial friends 
To banish other friendships hateful! 

And when I 'm done, 

I 'd have no son 
Pounce on these treasures like a vulture; 

Nay, give them half 

My epitaph, 
And let them share in my sepulture. 

Then, when the crack 
Of doom rolls back 

The marble and the earth that hide me, 
I '11 smuggle home 
Each precious tome, 

Without a fear my wife shall chide me! 



THE WANDERER 

Upon a mountain height, far from the sea, 

I found a shell, 
And to my listening ear the lonely thing 
Ever a song of ocean seemed to sing, 

Ever a tale of ocean seemed to tell. 

How came the shell upon that mountain height? 

Ah, who can say 
Whether there dropped by some too careless hand, 
Or whether there cast when Ocean swept the Land, 

Ere the Eternal had ordained the Day? 

Strange, was it not? Far from its native deep, 

One song it sang, — 
Sang of the awful mysteries of the tide, 
Sang of the misty sea, profound and wide, — 

Ever with echoes of the ocean rang. 



SOLDIER, MAIDEN, AND FLOWER 35 

And as the shell upon the mountain height 

Sings of the sea, 
So do I ever, leagues and leagues away, — 
So do I ever, wandering where I may, — 

Sing, O my home! sing, O my home! of thee. 

1883. 



SOLDIER, MAIDEN, AND FLOWER 

''Sweetheart, take this," a soldier said, 

"And bid me brave good-by; 
It may befall we ne'er shall wed, 

But love can never die. 
Be steadfast in thy troth to me, 

And then, whate'er my lot, 
'My soul to God, my heart to thee,' — 

Sweetheart, forget me not!" 

The maiden took the tiny flower 

And nursed it with her tears: 
Lo! he who left her in that hour 

Came not in after years. 
Unto a hero's death he rode 

'Mid shower of fire and shot; 
But in the maiden's heart abode 

The flower, forget-me-not. 

And when he came not with the rest 

From out the years of blood, 
Closely unto her widowed breast 

She pressed a faded bud; 
Oh, there is love and there is pain, 

And there is peace, God wot, — 
And these dear three do- live again 

In sweet forget-me-not. 



36 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

'T is to an unmarked grave to-day 

That I should love to go, — 
Whether he wore the blue or gray, 

What need that we should know? 
"He loved a woman," let us say, 

And on that sacred spot, 
To woman's love, that lives for aye, 

We '11 strew forget-me-not. 

1887. 



AILSIE, MY BAIRN 

Lie in my arms, Ailsie, my bairn, — 

Lie in my arms and dinna greit; 
Long time been past syn I kenned you last, 

But my harte been allwais the same, my swete. 

Ailsie, I colde not say you ill, 

For out of the mist of your bitter tears, 

And the prayers that rise from your bonnie eyes, 
Cometh a promise of oder yeres. 

I mind the time when we lost our bairn, — 
Do you ken that time? A wambling tot, 

You wandered away ane simmer day, 

And we hunted and called, and found you not. 

I promised God, if He 'd send you back, 
Alwaies to keepe and to love you, childe; 

And I 'm thinking again of that promise when 
I see you creep out of the storm sae wild. 

You came back then as you come back now, — 
Your kirtle torn and your face all white; 

And you stood outside and knockit and cried, 
Just as you, dearie, did to-night. 



MR. DANA, OF THE NEW YORK SUN 37 

Oh, never a word of the cruel wrang, 

That has faded your cheek and dimmed your ee; 
And never a word of the fause, fause lord, — 

Only a smile and a kiss for me. 

Lie in my arms, as long, long syne, 

And sleepe on my bosom, deere wounded thing, — 
I 'm nae sae glee as I used to be, 

Or I 'd sing you the songs I used to sing. 

But He kemb my fingers thro' y'r haire, 

And nane shall know, but you and I, 
Of the love and the faith that came to us baith 

When Ailsie, my bairn, came home to die. 



MR. DANA, OF THE NEW YORK SUN 

Thar showed up out'n Denver in the spring uv '81 
A man who 'd worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun. 
His name wuz Cantell Whoppers, 'nd he wuz a sight ter view 
Ez he walked inter the orfice 'nd inquired fer work ter do. 
Thar war n't no places vacant then, — fer be it understood, 
That wuz the time when talent nourished at that altitood; 
But thar the stranger lingered, tellin' Raymond 'nd the rest 
Uv what perdigious wonders he could do when at his best, 
Till finally he stated (quite by chance) that he hed done 
A heap uv work with Dana on the Noo York Sun. 

Wall, that wuz quite another thing; we owned that ary cuss 

Who 'd worked f'r Mr. Dana must be good enough fer us! 

And so we tuk the stranger's word 'nd nipped him while we could, 

For if we did n't take him we knew John Arkins would; 

And Cooper, too, wuz mouzin' round fer enterprise 'nd brains, 

Whenever them commodities blew in across the plains. 

At any rate we nailed him, which made ol' Cooper swear 

And Arkins tear out handfuls uv his copious curly hair; 

But we set back and cackled, 'nd hed a power uv fun 

With our man who 'd worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun. 



38 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

It made our eyes hang on our cheeks 'nd lower jaws ter drop, 
Ter hear that feller tellin' how ol' Dana run his shop: 
It seems that Dana wuz the biggest man you ever saw, — 
He lived on human bein's, 'nd preferred to eat 'em raw! 
If he hed Democratic drugs ter take, before he took 'em, 
As good old allopathic laws prescribe, he alius shook 'em. 
The man that could set down 'nd write like Dany never grew, 
And the sum of human knowledge wuz n't half what Dana knew; 
The consequence appeared to be that nearly every one 
Concurred with Mr. Dana of the Noo York Sun. 

This feller, Cantell Whoppers, never brought an item in, — 

He spent his time at Perrin's shakin' poker dice f'r gin. 

Whatever the assignment, he wuz alius sure to shirk, 

He wuz very long on likker and all-fired short on work! 

If any other cuss had played the tricks he dared ter play, 

The daisies would be bloomin' over his remains to-day; 

But somehow folks respected him and stood him to the last, 

Considerin' his superior connections in the past. 

So, when he bilked at poker, not a sucker drew a gun 

On the man who 'd worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun. 

Wall, Dana came ter Denver in the fall uv '83, 

A very different party from the man we thought ter see, — 

A nice 'nd clean old gentleman, so dignerfied 'nd calm, 

You bet yer life he never did no human bein' harm! 

A certain hearty manner 'nd a fulness uv the vest 

Betokened that his sperrits 'nd his victuals wuz the best; 

His face wuz so benevolent, his smile so sweet 'nd kind, 

That they seemed to be the reflex uv an honest, healthy mind; 

And God had set upon his head a crown uv silver hair 

In promise uv the golden crown He meaneth him to wear. 

So, uv us boys that met him out'n Denver, there wuz none 

But fell in love with Dana uv the Noo York Sun. 

But when he came to Denver in that fall uv '83, 
His old friend Cantell Whoppers disappeared upon a spree; 
The very thought uv seein' Dana worked upon him so 
(They had n't been together fer a year or two, you know), 



MR. DANA, OF THE NEW YORK SUN 39 

That he borrered all the stuff he could and started on a bat, 
And, strange as it may seem, we did n't see him after that. 
So, when ol' Dana hove in sight, we could n't understand 
Why he did n't seem to notice that his crony wa'n't on hand; 
No casual allusion, not a question, no, not one, 
For the man who 'd "worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun!" 

We broke it gently to him, but he did n't seem surprised, 

Thar wuz no big burst uv passion as we fellers had surmised. 

He said that Whoppers wuz a man he 'd never heerd about, 

But he mought have carried papers on a Jarsey City route; 

iVnd then he recollected hearin' Mr. Laffan say 

That he 'd fired a man named Whoppers fur bein' drunk one day, 

W T hich, with more likker underneath than money in his vest, 

Had started on a freight-train fur the great 'nd boundin' West, 

But further information or statistics he had none 

Uv the man who 'd "worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun." 

We dropped the matter quietly 'nd never made no fuss, — 

When we get played for suckers, why, that's a horse on us! — 

But every now 'nd then we Denver fellers have to laff 

To hear some other paper boast uv havin' on its staff 

A man who 's "worked with Dana," 'nd then we fellers wink 

And pull our hats down on our eyes 'nd set around 'nd think. 

It seems like Dana could n't be as smart as people say, 

If he educates so many folks 'nd lets 'em get away; 

And, as for us, in future we '11 be very apt to shun 

The man who "worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun." 

But bless ye, Mr. Dana! may you live a thousan' years, 

To sort o' keep things lively in this vale of human tears; 

An' may / live a thousan', too, — a thousan' less a day, 

For I should n't like to be on earth to hear you 'd passed away. 

And when it comes your time to go you '11 need no Latin chaff 

Nor biographic data put in your epitaph; 

But one straight line of English and of truth will let folks know 

The homage 'nd the gratitude 'nd reverence they owe; 

You '11 need no epitaph but this: "Here sleeps the man who run 

That best 'nd brightest paper, the Noo York Sun." 



40 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 



THE TWENTY-THIRD PSALM 

My Shepherd is the Lord my God, — 

There is no want I know; 
His flock He leads in verdant meads, 

Where tranquil waters flow. 

He doth restore my fainting soul 

With His divine caress, 
And, when I stray, He points the way 

To paths of righteousness. 

Yea, though I walk the vale of death, 

What evil shall I fear? 
Thy staff and rod are mine, O God, 

And Thou, my Shepherd, near! 

Mine enemies behold the feast 

Which my dear Lord hath spread; 

And, lo! my cup He filleth up, 
With oil anoints my head! 

Goodness and mercy shall be mine 

Unto my dying day; 
Then will I bide at His dear side 

Forever and for aye! 



THE BIBLIOMANIAC'S BRIDE 

The women-folk are like to books, — 

Most pleasing to the eye, 
Whereon if anybody looks 

He feels disposed to buy. 



THE BIBLIOMANIAC'S BRIDE 41 

I hear that many are for sale, — 

Those that record no dates, 
And such editions as regale 

The view with colored plates. 

Of every quality and grade 

And size they may be found, — 
Quite often beautifully made, 

As often poorly bound. 

Now, as for me, had I my choice, 

I 'd choose no folio tall, 
But some octavo to rejoice 

My sight and heart withal, — 

As plump and pudgy as a snipe; 

Well worth her weight in gold; 
Of honest, clean, conspicuous type, 

And just the size to hold! 

With such a volume for my wife 

How should I keep and con! 
How like a dream should run my life 

Unto its colophon! 

Her frontispiece should be more fair 

Than any colored plate; 
Blooming with health, she would not care 

To extra-illustrate. 

And in her pages there should be 

A wealth of prose and verse, 
With now and then a jeu d 'esprit, — 

But nothing ever worse! 

Prose for me when I wished for prose, 

Verse when to verse inclined, — 
Forever bringing sweet repose 

To body, heart, and mind. 



42 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

Oh, I should bind this priceless prize 

In bindings full and fine, 
And keep her where no human eyes 

Should see her charms, but mine! 

With such a fair unique as this 

What happiness abounds! 
Who — who could paint my rapturous bliss, 

My joy unknown to Lowndes! 



CHRISTMAS HYMN 

Sing, Christmas bells! 

Say to the earth this is the morn 
Whereon our Saviour-King is born; 

Sing to all men, — the bond, the free, 
The rich, the poor, the high, the low, 
The little child that sports in glee, 
The aged folk that tottering go, — 

Proclaim the morn 

That Christ is born, 
That saveth them and saveth me! 

Sing, angel host! 
Sing of the star that God has placed 
Above the manger in the east; 

Sing of the glories of the night, 
The virgin's sweet humility, 

The Babe with kingly robes bedight, — 
Sing to all men where'er they be 

This Christmas morn; 

For Christ is born, 
That saveth them and saveth me! 

Sing, sons of earth! 
O ransomed seed of Adam, sing! 
God liveth, and we have a king! 

The curse is gone, the bond are free, — 



"GOOD-BY — GOD BLESS YOU!" 43 

By Bethlehem's star that brightly beamed, 

By all the heavenly signs that be, 

We know that Israel is redeemed; 

That on this morn 

The Christ is born 

That saveth you and saveth me! 

Sing, O my heart! 
Sing thou in rapture this dear morn 
Whereon the blessed Prince is born! 
And as thy songs shall be of love, 
So let my deeds be charity, — 

By the dear Lord that reigns above, 
By Him that died upon the tree, 
By this fair morn 
Whereon is born 
The Christ that saveth all and me! 



GOOD-BY— GOD BLESS YOU!" 

I like the Anglo-Saxon speech 

With its direct revealings; 
It takes a hold, and seems to reach 

'Way down into your feelings; 
That some folk deem it rude, I know, 

And therefore they abuse it; 
But I have never found it so, — 

Before all else I choose it. 
I don't object that men should air 

The Gallic they have paid for, 
With "Au re voir," "Adieu, ma chere," 

For that 's what French was made for. 
But when a crony takes your hand 

At parting, to address you, 
He drops all foreign lingo and 

He says, "Good-by — God bless you!" 



44 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

This seems to me a sacred phrase, 

With reverence impassioned, — 
A thing come down from righteous days, 

Quaintly but nobly fashioned; 
It well becomes an honest face, 

A voice that's round and cheerful; 
It stays the sturdy in his place, 

And soothes the weak and fearful. 
Into the porches of the ears 

It steals with subtle unction, 
And in your heart of hearts appears 

To work its gracious function; 
And all day long with pleasing song 

It lingers to caress you, — 
I 'm sure no human heart goes wrong 

That 's told "Good-by — God bless you 

I love the words, — perhaps because, 

When I was leaving Mother, 
Standing at last in solemn pause 

We looked at one another, 
And I — I saw in Mother's eyes 

The love she could not tell me, — 
A love eternal as the skies, 

Whatever fate befell me; 
She put her arms about my neck 

And soothed the pain of leaving, 
And though her heart was like to break, 

She spoke no word of grieving; 
She let no tear bedim her eye, 

For fear that might distress me, 
But, kissing me, she said good-by, 

And asked our God to bless me. 



CHRYSTMASSE OF OLDE 45 



CHRYSTMASSE OF OLDE 

God rest you, Chrysten gentil men, 

Wherever you may be, — 
God rest you all in fielde or hall, 

Or on ye stormy sea; 
For on this morn oure Chryst is born 

That saveth you and me. 

Last night ye shepherds in ye east 
Saw many a wondrous thing; 

Ye sky last night flamed passing bright 
Whiles that ye stars did sing, 

And angels came to bless ye name 
Of Jesus Chryst, oure Kyng. 

God rest you, Chrysten gentil men, 

Faring where'er you may; 
In noblesse court do thou no sport, 

In tournament no playe, 
In paynim lands hold thou thy hands 

From bloudy works this daye. 

But thinking on ye gentil Lord • 

That died upon ye tree, 
Let troublings cease and deeds of peace 

Abound in Chrystantie; 
For on this morn ye Chryst is born 

That saveth vou and me. 



A PROPER TREWE IDYLL OF CAMELOT 

Whenas ye plaisaunt Aperille shoures have washed and purged 

awaye 
Ye poysons and ye rheums of earth to make a merrie May, 
Ye shraddy boscage of ye woods ben full of birds that syng 
Right merrilie a madrigal unto ye waking spring, 



46 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

Ye whiles that when ye face of earth ben washed and wiped 

ycleane 
Her peeping posies blink and stare like they had ben her een ; 
Then, wit ye well, ye harte of man ben turned to thoughts of 

love, 
And, tho' it ben a lyon erst, it now ben like a dove! 
And many a goodly damosel in innocence beguiles 
Her owne trewe love with sweet discourse and divers plaisaunt 

wiles. 
In soche a time ye noblesse liege that ben Kyng Arthure hight 
Let cry a joust and tournament for evereche errant knyght, 
And, lo! from distant Joyous-garde and eche adjacent spot 
A company of noblesse lords fared unto Camelot, 
Wherein were mighty feastings and passing merrie cheere, 
And eke a deale of dismal dole, as you shall quickly heare. 

It so befell upon a daye when jousts ben had and while 

Sir Launcelot did ramp around ye ring in gallaunt style, 

There came an horseman shriking sore and rashing wildly home, — 

A mediaeval horseman with ye usual flecks of foame; 

And he did brast into ye ring, wherein his horse did drop, 

Upon ye which ye rider did with like abruptness stop, 

And w T ith fatigue and fearfulness continued in a swound 

Ye space of half an hour or more before a leech w T as founde. 

"Now tell me straight," quod Launcelot, "what varlet knyght 

you be, 
Ere that I chine you with my sworde and cleave your harte in 

three'" 
Then rolled that knyght his bloudy een, and answered with a 

groane, — 
"By worthy God that hath me made and shope ye sun and 

mone, 
There fareth hence an evil thing whose like ben never seene, 
And tho' he sayeth nony worde, he bodethe ill, I ween. 
So take your parting, evereche one, and gird you for ye fraye, — 
By all that 's pure, ye Divell sure doth trend his path this 

way!" 
Ye which he quoth and fell again into a deadly swound, 
And on that spot, perchance (God wot), his bones mought yet 

be founde. 



A PROPER TREWE IDYLL OF CAMELOT 47 

Then evereche knyght girt on his sworde and shield and hied him 

straight 
To meet ye straunger sarasen hard by ye city gate; 
Full sorely moaned ye damosels and tore their beauty se ha ire 
For that they feared an hippogriff wolde come to eate them 

there ; 
But as they moaned and swounded there too numerous to relate, 
Kyng Arthure and Sir Launcelot stode at ye city gate, 
And at eche side and round about stode many a noblesse knyght 
With helm and speare and sworde and shield and mickle valor 

dight. 

Anon there came a straunger, but not a gyaunt grim, 

Nor yet a draggon, — but a person gangling, long, and slim; 

Yclad he was in guise that ill-beseemed those knyghtly days, 

And there ben nony etiquette in his uplandish ways; 

His raiment was of dusty gray, and perched above his lugs 

There ben the very latest style of blacke and shiny pluggs; 

His nose ben like a vulture beake, his blie ben swart of hue, 

And curly ben ye whiskers through ye which ye zephyrs blewe; 

Of all ye een that ben yseene in countries far or nigh, 

None nonywhere colde hold compare unto that straunger's eye; 

It was an eye of soche a kind as never ben on sleepe, 

Nor did it gleam with kindly beame, nor did not use to weepe; 

But soche an eye ye widdow hath, — an hongrey eye and wan, 

That spyeth for an oder chaunce whereby she may catch on; 

An eye that winketh of itself, and saycth by that winke 

Ye which a maiden sholde not knowe nor never even thinke; 

Which winke ben more exceeding swift nor human thought ben 

thunk, 
And leaveth doubting if so be that winke ben really wunke; 
And soche an eye ye catte-fysshe hath when that he ben on dead 
And boy led a goodly time and served with capers on his head; 
A rayless eye, a bead-like eye, whose famisht aspect shows 
It hungereth for ye verdant banks whereon ye wild time grows; 
An eye that hawketh up and down for evereche kind of game, 
And, when he doth espy ye which, he tumbleth to ye same. 

Now when he kenned Sir Launcelot in armor clad, he quod, 
"Another put-a-nickel-in-and-see-me-work, be god'." 



48 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

But when that he was ware a man ben standing in that suit, 
Ye straunger threw up both his hands, and asked him not to 
shoote. 

Then spake Kyng Arthure: "If soe be you mind to do no ill, 

Come, enter into Camelot, and eat and drink your fill; 

But say me first what you are hight, and what mought be your 

quest." 
Ye straunger quod, ''I 'm five feet ten, and fare me from ye West!" 
"Sir Fivefeetten," Kyng Arthure said, "I bid you welcome here; 
So make you merrie as you list with plaisaunt wine and cheere; 
This very night shall be a feast soche like ben never seene, 
And you shall be ye honored guest of Arthure and his queene. 
Now take him, good sir Maligraunce, and entertain him well 
Until soche time as he becomes our guest, as I you tell." 
That night Kyng Arthure's table round with mighty care ben 

spread, 
Ye oder knyghts sate all about, and Arthure at ye heade: 
Oh, 't was a goodly spectacle to ken that noblesse liege 
Dispensing hospitality from his commanding siege! 
Ye pheasant and ye meate of boare, ye haunch of velvet doe, 
Ye canvass hamme he them did serve, and many good things 

moe. 
Until at last Kyng Arthure cried: "Let bring my wassail cup, 
And let ye sound of joy go round, — I 'm going to set 'em up ! 
I 've pipes of Malmsey, May-wine, sack, metheglon, mead, and 

sherry, 
Canary, Malvoisie, and Port, swete Muscadelle and perry; 
Rochelle, Osey, and Romenay, Tyre, Rhenish, posset too, 
With kags and pails of foaming ales of brown October brew. 
To wine and beer and other cheere I pray you now despatch ye, 
And for ensample, wit ye well, sweet sirs, I 'm looking at ye!" 

Unto which toast of their liege lord ye oders in ye party 

Did lout them low in humble wise and bid ye same drink hearty. 

So then ben merrisome discourse and passing plaisaunt cheere, 

AndArthure's tales of hippogriffs ben mervaillous to heare; 

But straunger far than any tale told of those knyghts of old 

Ben those facetious narratives ye Western straunger told. 

He told them of a country many leagues beyond ye sea 



A PROPER TREWE IDYLL OF CAMELOT 49 

Where evereche forraine nuisance but ye Chinese man ben free, 
And whiles he span his monstrous yarns, ye ladies of ye court 
Did deem ye listening thereunto to be right plaisaunt sport; 
And whiles they listened, often he did squeeze a lily hande, — 
Ye which proceeding ne'er before ben done in Arthure's lande; 
And often wank a sidelong wink with either roving eye, 
Whereat ye ladies laughen so that they had like to die. 
But of ye damosels that sat around Kyng Arthure's table 
He liked not her that sometime ben ron over by ye cable, 
Ye which full evil hap had harmed and marked her person so 
That in a passing wittie jest he dubbeth her ye crow. 

But all ye oders of ye girls did please him passing well 

And they did own him for to be a proper seeming swell; 

And in especial Guinevere esteemed him wondrous faire, 

Which had made Arthure and his friend, Sir Launcelot, to sware 

But that they both ben so far gone with posset, wine, and beer, 

They colde not see ye carrying-on, nor neither colde not heare; 

For of eche liquor Arthure quaff t, and so did all ye rest, 

Save only and excepting that smooth straunger from the West. 

When as these oders drank a toast, he let them have their fun 

With divers godless mixings, but he stock to willow run, 

Ye which (and all that reade these words sholde profit by ye 

warning) 
Doth never make ye head to feel like it ben swelled next morning. 
Now, wit ye well, it so befell that when the night grew dim, 
Ye Kyng was carried from ye hall with a howling jag on him, 
Whiles Launcelot and all ye rest that to his highness toadied 
Withdrew them from ye banquet-hall and sought their couches 

loaded. 

Now, lithe and listen, lordings all, whiles I do call it shame 

That, making cheer with wine and beer, men do abuse ye same; 

Though eche be well enow alone, ye mixing of ye two 

Ben soche a piece of foolishness as only ejiots do. 

Ye wine is plaisaunt bibbing whenas ye gentles dine, 

And beer will do if one hath not ye wherewithal for wine, 

But in ye drinking of ye same ye wise are never floored 

By taking what ye tipplers call too big a jag on board. 

Right hejeous isit for to see soche dronkonness of wine 



50 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

Whereby some men are used to make themselves to be like swine; 
And sorely it repenteth them, for when they wake next day 
Ye fearful paynes they suffer ben soche as none mought say, 
And soche ye brenning in ye throat and brasting of ye head 
And soche ye taste within ye mouth like one had ben . on dead, — 
Soche be ye foul condicions that these unhappy men 
Sware they will never drink no drop of nony drinke again. 
Yet all so frail and vain a thing and weak withal is man 
That he goeth on an oder tear whenever that he can. 
And like ye evil quatern or ye hills that skirt ye skies, 
Ye jag is reproductive and jags on jags arise. 

Whenas Aurora from ye east in dewy splendor hied 
Kyng Arthure dreemed he saw a snaix and ben on fire inside, 
And w r aking from this hejeous dreeme he sate him up in bed, — 
"What, ho! an absynthe cocktail, knave! and make it strong!" he 

said; 
Then, looking down beside him, lo! his lady was not there — 
He called, he searched, but, Goddis w T ounds! he found her nony- 

where ; 
And whiles he searched, Sir Maligraunce rashed in, wood wroth, 

and cried, 
"Methinketh that ye straunger knyght hath snuck away my bride!" 
And whiles he spake a motley score of other knyghts brast in 
And filled ye royall chamber with a mickle fearful din, 
For evereche one had lost his wiffe nor colde nor spye ye same, 
Nor colde not spye ye straunger knyght, Sir Fivefeetten of name. 

Oh, then and there was grevious lamentation all arounde, 
For nony dame nor damosel in Camelot ben found, — - 
Gone, like ye forest leaves that speed afore ye autumn wind. 
Of all ye ladies of that court not one ben left behind 
Save only that same damosel ye straunger called ye crow, 
And she allowed with moche regret she ben too lame to go; 
And when that she had wept full sore, to Arthure she confess'd 
That Guinevere had left this word for Arthure and ye rest: 
"Tell them," she quod, "we shall return to them whenas we 've 

made 
This little deal we have with ye Chicago Bourde of Trade." 



IN FLANDERS 51 



IN FLANDERS 



Through sleet and fogs to the saline bogs 
Where the herring fish meanders, 

An army sped, and then, 't is said, 
Swore terribly in Flanders: 



A hideous store of oaths they swore, 
Did the army over in Flanders! 

At this distant day we 're unable to say 

What so aroused their danders; 
But it 's doubtless the case, to their lasting disgrace, 

That the army swore in Flanders: 

" . . !" 



And many more such oaths they swore, 
Did that impious horde in Flanders! 



Some folks contend that these oaths without end 

Began among the commanders, 
That, taking this cue, the subordinates, too, 

Swore terribly in Flanders: 

'Twas " !" 



Why, the air was blue with the hullaballoo 
Of those wicked men in Flanders! 



But some suppose that the trouble arose 
With a certain Corporal Sanders, 

Who sought to abuse the wooden shoes 
That the natives wore in Flanders. 
Saying: " !" 



What marvel then, that the other men 
Felt encouraged to swear in Flanders! 



52 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

At any rate, as I grieve to state, 

Since these soldiers vented their danders 

Conjectures obtain that for language profane 
There is no such place as Flanders. 



This is the kind of talk you '11 find 
If you ever go to Flanders. 

How wretched is he, wherever he be, 
That unto this habit panders! 

And how glad am I that my interests lie 
In Chicago, and not in Flanders! 



Would never go down in this circumspect town 
However it might in Flanders. 



OUR BIGGEST FISH 

When in the halcyon days of eld, I was a little tyke, 
I used to fish in pickerel ponds for minnows and the like; 
And oh, the bitter sadness with which my soul was fraught 
When I rambled home at nightfall with the puny string I 'd 

caught ! 
And, oh, the indignation and the valor I 'd display 
When I claimed that all the biggest fish I 'd caught had got away! 

Sometimes it was the rusty hooks, sometimes the fragile lines, 

And many times the treacherous reeds would foil my just designs; 

But whether hooks or lines or reeds were actually to blame, 

I kept right on at losing all the monsters just the same — '- 

I never lost a little fish — yes, I am free to say 

It always was the biggest fish I caught that got away. 

And so it was, when later on, I felt ambition pass 

From, callow minnow joys to nobler greed for pike and bass; 

I found it quite convenient, when the beauties would n't bite 



THIRTY-NINE &S 

And I returned all bootless from the watery chase at night, 

To feign a cheery aspect and recount in accents gay 

How the biggest fish that I had caught had somehow got away. 

And really, fish look bigger than they are before they 're caught — 
When the pole is bent into a bow and the slender line is taut, 
When a fellow feels his heart rise up like a doughnut in his throat 
And he lunges in a frenzy up and down the leaky boat! 
Oh, you who've been a-fishing will indorse me when I say 
That it always is the biggest fish you catch that gets away! 

'T 'is even so in other things — yes, in our greedy eyes 
The biggest boon is some elusive, never-captured prize; 
We angle for the honors and the sweets of human life — 
Like fishermen we brave the seas that roll in endless strife; 
And then at last, when all is done and we are spent and gray, 
We own the biggest fish we 've caught are those that got away. 

I would not have it otherwise; 't is better there should be 
Much bigger fish than I have caught a-swimming in the sea; 
For now some worthier one than I may angle for that game — 
May by his 'arts entice, entrap, and comprehend the same; 
Which, having done, perchance he '11 bless the man who 's proud 

to say 
That the biggest fish he ever caught were those that got away. 



THIRTY-NINE 

O hapless day! O wretched day! 

I hoped you 'd pass me by — 
Alas, the years have sneaked away 

And all is changed but I! 
Had I the power, I would remand 

You to a gloom condign, 
But here you 've crept upon me and 

I — I am thirtv-nine! 



54 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

Now, were I thirty-five, I could 

Assume a flippant guise; 
Or, were I forty years, I should 

Undoubtedly look wise; 
For forty years are said to bring 

Sedateness superfine; 
But thirty-nine don't mean a thing — 

A has with thirty-nine! 

You healthy, hulking girls and boys, — 

What makes you grow so fast? 
Oh, I '11 survive your lusty noise — 

I 'm tough and bound to last! 
No, no — I 'm old and withered too — 

I feel my powers decline 
(Yet none believes this can be true 

Of one at thirty-nine). 

And you, dear girl with velvet eyes, 

I wonder what you mean 
Through all our keen anxieties 

By keeping sweet sixteen. 
With your dear love to warm my heart, 

Wretch were I to repine; 
I was but jesting at the start — 

I 'm glad I 'm thirty-nine! 

So, little children, roar and race 

As blithely as you can, 
And, sweetheart, let your tender grace 

Exalt the Day and Man; 
For then these factors (I '11 engage) 

All subtly shall combine 
To make both juvenile and sage 

The one who's thirty-nine! 

Yes, after all, I 'm free to say 
I would much rather be 

Standing as I do stand to-day, 
'Twixt devil and deep sea; 



YVYTOT 55 

For though my face be dark with care 

Or with a grimace shine, 
Each haply falls unto my share, 

For I am thirty-nine! 

'T is passing meet to make good cheer 

And lord it like a king, 
Since only once we catch the year 

That does n't mean a thing. 
O happy day! O gracious day! 

I pledge thee in this wine — 
Come, let us journey on our way 

A year, good Thirty-Nine! 

Sept. 2, 1889 



YVYTOT 



Where wail the waters in their flow 
A spectre wanders to and fro, 

And evermore that ghostly shore 
Bemoans the heir of Yvytot. 

Sometimes, when, like a fleecy pall, 
The mists upon the waters fall, 

Across the main float shadows twain 
That do not heed the spectre's call. 

The king his son of Yvytot 
Stood once and saw the waters go 

Boiling around with hissing sound 
The sullen phantom rocks below. 

And suddenly he saw a face 
Lift from that black and seething place- 
Lift up and gaze in mute amaze 
And tenderly a little space, 



56 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

A mighty cry of love made he — 
No answering word to him gave she, 

But looked, and then sunk back again 
Into the dark and depthless sea. 

And ever afterward that face, 
That he beheld such little space, 

Like wraith would rise within his eyes 
And in his heart find biding place. 

So oft from castle hall he crept 

Where mid the rocks grim shadows slept, 

And where the mist reached down and kissed 
The waters as they wailed and wept. 

The king it was of Yvytot 
That vaunted, many years ago, 

There was no coast his valiant host 
Had not subdued with spears and bow. 

For once to him the sea-king cried: 
"In safety all thy ships shall ride 

An thou but swear thy princely heir 
Shall take my daughter to his bride. 

"And lo, these winds that rove the sea 
Unto our pact shall witness be, 

And of the oath which binds us both 
Shall be the judge 'twixt me and thee!" 

Then swore the king of Yvytot 
Unto the sea-king years ago, 

And with great cheer for many a year 
His ships went harrying to and fro. 

- Unto this mighty king his throne 
Was born a prince, and one alone — 

Fairer than he in form and blee 
And knightly grace was never known. 



YVYTOT 57 

But once he saw a maiden face 
Lift from a haunted ocean place — 
Lift up and gaze in mute amaze 
And tenderly a little space. 

Wroth was the king of Yvytot, 
For that his son would never go 

Sailing the sea, but liefer be 
Where wailed the waters in their flow, 

Where winds in clamorous anger swept, 
Where to and fro grim shadows crept, 

And where the mist reached down and kissed 
The waters as they wailed and wept. 

So sped the years, till came a day 
The haughty king was old and gray, 
And in his hold were spoils untold 
That he had wrenched from Norroway. 

Then once again the sea-king cried: 
"Thy ships have harried far and wide; 

My part is done — now let thy son 
Require my daughter to his bride!" 

Loud laughed the king of Yvytot, 
And by his soul he bade him no — 

"I heed no more what oath I swore, 
For I was mad to bargain so!" 

Then spake the sea-king in his wrath : 
"Thy ships lie broken in my path! 

Go now and wring thy hands, false king! 
Nor ship nor heir thy kingdom hath! 

"And thou shalt wander evermore 
All up and down this ghostly shore, 

And call in vain upon the twain 
That keep what oath a dastard swore!" 



58 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

The king his son of Yvytot 
Stood even then where to and fro 

The breakers swelled — and there beheld 
A maiden face lift from below. 

"Be thou or truth or dream," he cried, 
"Or spirit of the restless tide, 

It booteth not to me, God wot! 
But I would have thee to my bride." 

Then spake the maiden: "Come with me 
Unto a palace in the sea, 

For there my sire in kingly ire 
Requires thy king his oath of thee!" 

Gayly he fared him down the sands 

And took the maiden's outstretched hands; 

And so went they upon their way 
To do the sea-king his commands. 

The winds went riding to and fro 

And scourged the waves that crouched below, 

And bade them sing to a childless king 
The bridal song of Yvytot. 

So fell the curse upon that shore, 
And hopeless wailing evermore 

Was the righteous dole of the craven soul 
That heeded not what oath he swore. 

An hundred ships went down that day 
All off the coast of Norroway, 

And the ruthless sea made mighty glee 
Over the spoil that drifting lay. 

The winds went calling far and wide 
To the dead that tossed in the mocking tide: 
"Come forth, ye slaves! from your fleeting graves 
And drink a health to your prince his bride!" 



TO A SOUBRETTE 59 

Where wail the waters in their flow 
A spectre wanders to and fro, 

But nevermore that ghostly shore 
Shall claim the heir of Yvytot. 

Sometimes, when, like a fleecy pall, 
The mists upon the waters fall, 

Across the main flit shadows twain 
That do not heed the spectre's call. 



TO A SOUBRETTE 

'Tis years, soubrette, since last we met; 

And yet — ah, yet, how swift and tender 
My thoughts go back in time's dull track 

To you, sweet pink of female gender! 
I shall not say — though others may — 

That time all human joy enhances; 
But the same old thrill comes to me still 

With memories of your songs and dances. 

Soubrettish ways these latter days 

Invite my praise, but never get it ; 
I still am true to yours and you — 

My record's made, I '11 not upset it! 
The pranks they play, the things they say — 

I 'd blush to put the like on paper, 
And I '11 avow they don't know how 

To dance, so awkwardly they caper! 

I used to sit down in the pit 

And see you flit like elf or fairy 
Across the stage, and I '11 engage 

No moonbeam sprite was half so airy; 
Lo, everywhere about me there 

Were rivals reeking with pomatum, 
And if, perchance, they caught your glance 

In song or dance, how did I hate 'em! 



60 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

At half-past ten came rapture — then 

Of all those men was I most happy, 
For bottled beer and royal cheer 

And tetes-a-tetes were on the tapis. 
Do you forget, my fair soubrette, 

Those suppers at the Cafe Rector, — 
The cosey nook where we partook 

Of sweeter cheer than fabled nectar? 

Oh, happy days, when youth's wild ways 

Knew every phase of harmless folly! 
Oh, blissful nights, whose fierce delights 

Defied gaunt-featured Melancholy! 
Gone are they all beyond recall, 

And I — a shade, a mere reflection — 
Am forced to feed my spirit's greed 

Upon the husks of retrospection! 

And lo! to-night, the phantom light, 

That, as a sprite, flits on the fender, 
Reveals a face whose girlish grace 

Brings back the feeling, warm and tender; 
And, all the while, the old-time smile 

Plays on my visage, grim and wrinkled, — 
As though, soubrette, your footfalls yet 

Upon my rusty heart-strings tinkled! 



DEDICATION TO "SECOND BOOK OF VERSE' 

A little bit of a woman came 

Athwart my path one day; 
So tiny was she that she seemed to be 
A pixy strayed from the misty sea, 

Or a wandering greenwood fay. 

"Oho, you little elf!" I cried, 

"And what are you doing here? 



DEDICATION TO " SECOND BOOK OF VERSE " 61 

So tiny as you will never do 
For the brutal rush and hullaballoo 
Of this practical world, I fear." 

"Voice have I, good sir," said she. — 

" 'T is soft as an Angel's sigh, 
But to fancy a word of yours were heard 
In all the din of this world 's absurd!" 

Smiling, I made reply. 

"Hands have I, good sir," she quoth.— 

"Marry, and that have you! 
But amid the strife and the tumult rife 
In all the struggle and battle for life, 

What can those wee hands do?" 

"Eyes have I, good sir," she said. — 

"Sooth, you have," quoth I, 
"And tears shall flow therefrom, I trow, 
And they betimes shall dim with woe, 

As the hard, hard years go by!" 

That little bit of a woman cast 

Her two eyes full on me, 
And they smote me sore to my inmost core. 
And they hold me slaved forevermore, — 

Yet would I not be free! 

That little bit of a woman's hands 

Reached up into my breast, 
And rent apart my scoffing heart, — 
And they buffet it still with such sweet art 

As cannot be expressed. 

That little bit of a woman's voice 

Hath grown most wondrous dear; 

Above the blare of all elsewhere 

(An inspiration that mocks at care) 
It riseth full and clear. 



62 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

Dear one, I bless the subtle power 
That makes me wholly thine; 
And I 'm proud to say that I bless the day 
When a little woman wrought her way 
Into this life of mine! 



FATHER'S WAY 

My father was no pessimist; he loved the things of earth, — 

Its cheerfulness and sunshine, its music and its mirth. 

He never sighed or moped around whenever things went wrong, — 

I warrant me he 'd mocked at fate with some defiant song; 

But, being he war n't much on tune, when times looked sort o' 

blue, 
He 'd whistle softly to himself this only tune he knew, — 



I 



#-# 



tZ^gj^I^Zj^r^ 



tr 



9-& 



& 



&- 



r: 



Now mother, when she heard that tune which father whistled so, 
Would say, " There 's something wrong to-day with Ephraim, 

I know; 
He never tries to make believe he 's happy that 'ere way 
But that I 'm certain as can be there 's somethin' wrong to pay." 
And so betimes, quite natural-like, to us observant youth 
There seemed suggestion in that tune of deep, pathetic truth. 

When Brother William joined the war, a lot of us went down 
To see the gallant soldier boys right gayly out of town. 
A-comin' home, poor mother cried as if her heart would break, 
And all us children, too, — for hers, and not for William's sake! 
But father, trudgin' on ahead, his hands behind him so, 
Kept whistlin' to himself, so sort of solemn-like and low. 

And when my oldest sister, Sue, was married and went W T est, 
Seemed like it took the tuck right out of mother and the rest. 
She was the sunlight in our home, — why, father used to say 



TO MY MOTHER 63 

It would n't seem like home at all if Sue should go away; 

But when she went, a-leavin' us all sorrer and all tears, 

Poor father whistled lonesome-like — and went to feed the steers. 



When crops were bad, and other ills befell our homely lot, 

He'd set of nights and try to act as if he minded not; 

And when came death and bore away the one he worshipped so, 

How vainly did his lips belie the heart benumbed with woe ! 

You see the telltale whistle told a mood he'd not admit, — 

He'd always stopped his whistlin' when he thought we noticed it. 

I 'd like to see that stooping form and hoary head again, — 
To see the honest, hearty smile that cheered his fellow-men. 
Oh, could I kiss the kindly lips that spake no creature wrong, 
And share the rapture of the heart that overflowed with song! 
Oh, could I hear the little tune he whistled long ago, 
When he did battle with the griefs he would not have us know! 



TO MY MOTHER 

How fair you are, my mother! 

Ah, though ' tis many a year 

Since you were here, 
Still do I see your beauteous face, 

And with the glow 
Of your dark eyes cometh a grace 

Of long ago. 
So gentle, too, my mother! 

Just as of old, upon my brow, 

Like benedictions now, 
Falleth your dear hand's touch; 

And still, as then, 
A voice that glads me overmuch 

Cometh again, 
My fair and gentle mother! 



64 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

How you have loved me, mother, 

I have not power to tell, 

Knowing full well 
That even in the rest above 

It is your will 
To watch and guard me with your love. 

Loving me still. 
And, as of old, my mother, 

I am content to be a child, 

By mother's love beguiled 
From all these other charms; 

So to the last 
Within thy dear, protecting arms 

Hold thou me fast, 
My guardian angel, mother! 



A VALENTINE TO MY WIFE 

Accept, dear girl, this little token, 
And if between the lines you seek, 

You '11 find the love I 've often spoken — 
The love my dying lips shall speak. 

Our little ones are making merry 
O'er am'rous ditties rhymed in jest, 

But in these words (though awkward — very) 
The genuine article 's expressed. 

You are as fair and sweet and tender, 
Dear brown-eyed little sweetheart mine, 

As when, a callow youth and slender, 
I asked to be your Valentine. 

What though these years of ours be fleeting? 

What though the years of youth be flown? 
I '11 mock old Tempus with repeating, 

"I love mv love and her alone!" 



GOSLING STEW 65 

And when I fall before his reaping, 

And when my stuttering speech is dumb, 

Think not my love is dead or sleeping, 
But that it waits for you to come. 

So take, dear love, this little token, 

And if there speaks in any line 
The sentiment I 'd fain have spoken, 

Say, will you kiss your Valentine? 



GOSLING STEW 

In Oberhausen, on a time, 

I fared as might a king; 
And now I feel the muse sublime 
Inspire me to embalm in rhyme 

That succulent and sapid thing 
Benight of gentile and of Jew 
A gosling stew! 

The good Herr Schmitz brought out his best,- 

Soup, cutlet, salad, roast, — 
And I partook with hearty zest, 
And fervently anon I blessed 

That generous and benignant host, 
When suddenly dawned on my view 
A gosling stew! 

I sniffed it coming on apace, 

And as its odors filled 
The curious little dining-place, 
I felt a glow suffuse my face, 

I felt my very marrow thrilled 
With rapture altogether new, — 
'T was gosling stew! 



66 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

These callow birds had never played 
In yonder village pond; 

Had never through the gateway strayed, 

And plaintive spissant music made 
Upon the grassy green beyond: 

Cooped up, they simply ate and grew 
For gosling stew! 

My doctor said I must n't eat 

High food and seasoned game; 

But surely gosling is a meat 

With tender nourishment replete. 
Leastwise I gayly ate this same; 

I braved dyspepsy — would n't you 
For gosling stew ? 

I 've feasted where the possums grow, 
Roast turkey have I tried, 

The joys of canvasbacks I know, 

And frequently I 've eaten crow 

In bleak and chill Novembertide; 

I 'd barter all that native crew 
For gosling stew! 

And when from Rhineland I adjourn 

To seek my Yankee shore, 
Back shall my memory often turn, 
And fiercely shall my palate burn 

For sweets I '11 taste, alas! no more, — 
Oh, that mein kleine frau could brew 
A gosling stew! 

Vain are these keen regrets of mine, 
And vain the song I sing; 

Yet would I quaff a stoup of wine 

To Oberhausen auf der Rhine, 

Where fared I like a very king: 

And here 's a last and fond adieu 
To gosling stew! 



JOHN SMITH 67 



JOHN SMITH 

To-day I strayed in Charing Cross, as wretched as could be, 

With thinking of my home and friends across the tumbling sea; 

There was no water in my eyes, but my spirits were depressed, 

And my heart lay like a sodden, soggy doughnut in my breast. 

This way and that streamed multitudes, that gayly passed me by; 

Not one in all the crowd knew me, and not a one knew I. 

"Oh for a touch of home!" I sighed; "oh for a friendly face! 

Oh for a hearty hand-clasp in this teeming, desert place!" 

And so soliloquizing, as a homesick creature will, 

Incontinent, I wandered down the noisy, bustling hill, 

And drifted, automatic-like and vaguely, into Lowe's, 

Where Fortune had in store a panacea for my woes. 

The register was open, and there dawned upon my sight 

A name that filled and thrilled me with a cyclone of delight, — 

The name that I shall venerate unto my dying day, 

The proud, immortal signature: "John Smith, U. S. A." 

Wildly I clutched the register, and brooded on that name; 

I knew John Smith, yet could not well identify the same. 

I knew him North, I knew him South, I knew him East and West: 

I knew him all so well I knew not which I knew the best. 

His eyes, I recollect, were gray, and black, and brown, and blue; 

And when he was not bald, his hair was of chameleon hue; 

Lean, fat, tall, short, rich, poor, grave, gay, a blonde and a bru- 
nette, — 

Aha, amid this London fog, John Smith, I see you yet! 

I see you yet; and yet the sight is all so blurred I seem 

To see you in composite, or as in a waking dream. 

Which are you, John ? I 'd like to know, that I might weave a 
rhyme 

Appropriate to your character, your politics, and clime. 

So tell me, were you "raised" or "reared" ? your pedigree confess 

In some such treacherous ism as "I reckon" or "I guess." 

Let fall your telltale dialect, that instantly I may 

Identify my countryman, "John Smith, U. S. A." 



68 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

It 's like as not you air the John that lived a spell ago 

Deown East, where codfish, beans, 'nd bona-fide schoolma'ams 

grow ; 
Where the dear old homestead nestles like among the Hampshire 

hills, 
And where the robin hops about the cherry-boughs, 'nd trills; 
Where Hubbard squash 'nd huckleberries grow to powerful size, 
And everything is orthodox from preachers down to pies; 
Where the red-wing blackbirds swing 'nd call beside the pick'ril 

pond, 
And the crows air cawin' in the pines uv the pasture lot beyond; 
Where folks complain uv bein' poor, because their money's lent 
Out West on farms 'nd railroads at the rate uv ten per cent; 
Where we ust to spark the Baker girls a-comin' home from 

choir, 
Or a-settin' namin' apples round the roarin, kitchen fire; 
Where we had to go to meetin' at least three times a week, 
And our mothers learnt us good religious Dr. Watts to speak; 
And where our grandmas sleep their sleep — God rest their souls, 

I say; 
And God bless yours, ef you 're that John, "John Smith, U. S. A." 

Or, mebbe, Col. Smith, yo' are the gentleman I know 

In the country whar the finest Democrats 'nd hosses grow; 

Whar the ladies are all beautiful, an' whar the crap of cawn 

Is utilized for Burbon, and true awters are bawn. 

You 've ren for jedge, and killed yore man, and bet on Proctor 

Knott; 
Yore heart is full of chivalry, yore skin is full of shot; 
And I disremember whar I 've met with gentlemen so true 
As yo' all in Kaintucky, whar blood an' grass are blue, 
Whar a niggah with a ballot is the signal fo' a fight, 
Whar the yaller dawg pursues the coon throughout the bammy 

night, 
W T har blooms the furtive possum, — pride an' glory of the South! 
And aunty makes a hoe-cake, sah, that melts within yo' mouth, 
Whar all night long the mockin'-birds are warblin' in the trees, 
And black-eyed Susans nod and blink at every passing breeze, 
Whar in a hallowed soil repose the ashes of our Clay, — 
H'yar 's lookin' at yo', Col. "John Smith, U. S. A." 



JOHN SMITH 69 

Or wuz you that John Smith I knew out yonder in the West, — 

That part of our Republic I shall always love the best! 

Wuz you him that went prospectin' in the spring of '69 

In the Red Hoss Mountain country for the Gosh-all-Hemlock 



mine 



Oh, how I 'd liked to clasped your hand, an' set down by your side, 
And talked about the good old days beyond the Big Divide, — 
Of the rackaboar, the snaix, the bear, the Rocky Mountain goat, 
Of the conversazzhyony, 'nd of Casey's tabble dote, 
And a word of them old pardners that stood by us long ago, — 
Three-fingered Hoover, Sorry Tom, and Parson Jim, you know! 
Old times, old friends, John Smith, would make our hearts beat 

high again, 
And we 'd see the snow-top mountains like we used to see 'em then; 
The magpies would go flutterin' like strange sperrits to 'nd fro, 
And we 'd hear the pines a-singin' in the ragged gulch below; 
And the mountain brook would loiter like upon its windin' way, 
Ez if it waited for a child to jine it in its play. 

You see, John Smith, just which you are I cannot well recall; 

And, really, I am pleased to think you somehow must be all! 

For when a man sojourns abroad awhile, as I have done, 

He likes to think of all the folks he left at home as one. 

And so they are, — for well you know there 's nothing in a name; 

Our Browns, our Joneses, and our Smiths are happily the same, — 

All represent the spirit of the land across the sea; 

All stand for one high purpose in our country of the free. 

Whether John Smith be from the South, the North, the West, the 

East, 
So long as he 's American, it mattereth not the least; 
Whether his crest be badger, bear, palmetto, sword, or pine, 
His is the glory of the stars that with the stripes combine. 
Where'er he be, whate'er his lot, he 's eager to be known, 
Not by his mortal name, but by his country's name alone; 
And so, compatriot, I am proud you wrote your name to-day 
Upon the register at Lowe's, "John Smith, U. S. A." 



70 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 



ST. MARTIN'S LANE 

St. Martin's Lane winds up the hill 

And trends a devious way; 
I walk therein amid the din 

Of busy London day: 
I walk where wealth and squalor meet, 

And think upon a time 
When others trod this saintly sod, 

And heard St. Martin's chime. 



But when those solemn bells invoke 

The midnight's slumbrous grace, 
The ghosts of men come back again 

To haunt that curious place: 
The ghosts of sages, poets, wits, 

Come back in goodly train; 
And all night long, with mirth and song, 

They walk St. Martin's Lane. 

There 's Jerrold paired with Thackeray, 

Maginn and Thomas Moore, 
And here and there and everywhere 

Fraserians by the score; 
And one wee ghost that climbs the hill 

Is welcomed with a shout, — 
No king could be revered as he, — 

The padre, Father Prout! 

They banter up and down the street, 

And clamor at the door 
Of yonder inn, which once has been 

The scene of mirth galore: 
'T is now a lonely, musty shell, 

Deserted, like to fall; 
And Echo mocks their ghostly knocks, 

And iterates their call. 



DEAR OLD LONDON 71 

Come back, thou ghost of ruddy host, 

From Pluto's misty shore; 
Renew to-night the keen delight 

Of by-gone years once more; 
Brew for this merry, motley horde, 

And serve the steaming cheer; 
And grant that I may lurk hard by, 

To see the mirth, and hear. 

Ah, me! I dream what things may seem 

To others childish vain, 
And yet at night 't is my delight 

To walk St. Martin's Lane; 
For, in the light of other days, 

I walk with those I love, 
And all the time St. Martin's chime 

Makes piteous moan above. 



DEAR OLD LONDON 

When I was broke in London in the fall of '89, 

I chanced to spy in Oxford Street this tantalizing sign — 

" A Splendid Horace cheap for Cash!" Of course I had to look 

Upon the vaunted bargain, and it was a noble book! 

A finer one I 've never seen, nor can I hope to see, — 

The first edition, richly bound, and clean as clean can be, 

And, just to think, for three-pounds-ten I might have had that Pine, 

When I was broke in London in the fall of '89! 

Down at Noseda's, in the Strand, I found, one fateful day, 

A portrait that I pined for as only maniac may, — 

A print of Madame Vestris (she flourished years ago, 

Was Bartolozzi's daughter and a thoroughbred, you know). 

A clean and handsome print it was, and cheap at thirty bob, — 

That 's what I told the salesman, as I choked a rising sob; 

But I hung around Noseda's as it were a holy shrine, 

When I was broke in London in the fall of '89! 



72 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

At Davey's, in Great Russell Street, were autographs galore, 
And Mr. Davey used to let me con that precious store. 
Sometimes I read what warriors wrote, sometimes a king's command, 
But oftener still a poet's verse, writ in a meagre hand. 
Lamb, Byron, Addison, and Burns, Pope, Johnson, Swift, and 

Scott, — 
It needed but a paltry sum to comprehend the lot; 
Yet, though Friend Davey marked 'em down, what could I but 

decline ? 
For I was broke in London in the fall of '89. 

Of antique swords and spears I saw a vast and dazzling heap 
That Curio Fenton offered me at prices passing cheap; 
And, oh, the quaint old bureaus, and the warming-pans of brass, 
And the lovely hideous freaks I found in pewter and in glass! 
And, oh, the sideboards, candlesticks, the cracked old china plates, 
The clocks and spoons from Amsterdam that antedate all dates! 
Of such superb monstrosities I found an endless mine 
When I was broke in London in the fall of '89. 

O ye that hanker after boons that others idle by, — 

The battered things that please the soul, though they may vex 

the eye, — 
The silver plate and crockery all sanctified with grime, 
The oaken stuff that has defiled the tooth of envious Time, 
The musty tomes, the speckled prints, the mildewed bills of play, 
And other costly relics of malodorous decay, — 
Ye only can appreciate what agony was mine 
When I was broke in London in the fall of '89. 

When, in the course of natural things, I go to my reward, 
Let no imposing epitaph my martyrdoms record; 
Neither in Hebrew, Latin, Greek, nor any classic tongue, 
Let my ten thousand triumphs over human griefs be sung; 
But in plain Anglo-Saxon — that he may know who seeks 
What agonizing pangs I 've had while on the hunt for freaks — 
Let there be writ upon the slab that marks my grave this line: 
" Deceased was broke in London in the fall of '89." 



THE CLINK OF THE ICE 73 



THE CLINK OF THE ICE 

Notably fond of music, I dote on a sweeter tone 

Than ever the harp has uttered or ever the lute has known. 

When I wake at five in the morning with a feeling in my head 

Suggestive of mild excesses before I retired to bed; 

When a small but fierce volcano vexes me sore inside, 

And my throat and mouth are furred with a fur that seemeth a 

buffalo hide, — 
How gracious those dews of solace that over my senses fall 
At the clink of the ice in the pitcher the boy brings up the 

hall! 

Oh, is it the gaudy ballet, with features I cannot name, 

That kindles in virile bosoms that slow but devouring flame? 

Or is it the midnight supper, eaten before we retire, 

That presently by combustion setteth us all afire? 

Or is it the cheery magnum? — nay, I'll not chide the cup 

That makes the meekest mortal anxious to whoop things up: 

Yet, what the cause soever, relief comes when we call, — 

Relief with that rapturous clinkety-clink that clinketh alike for all. 

I 've dreamt of the fiery furnace that was one vast bulk of 

flame, 
And that I was Abednego a-wallowing in that same; 
And I 've dreamt I was a crater, possessed of a mad desire 
To vomit molten lava, and to snort big gobs of fire; 
I 've dreamt I was Roman candles and rockets that fizzed and 

screamed, — 
In short, I have dreamt the cussedest dreams that ever a human 

dreamed : 
But all the red-hot fancies were scattered quick as a wink 
When the spirit within that pitcher went clinking its clinkety-clink. 

Boy, why so slow in coming with that gracious, saving cup ? 
Oh, haste thee to the succor of the man who is burning up! 
See how the ice bobs up and down, as if it wildly strove 
To reach its grace to the wretch who feels like a red-hot kitchen 
stove! 



74 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

The piteous clinks it clinks methinks should thrill you through 

and through: 
An erring soul is wanting drink, and he wants it p. d. q. ! 
And, lo! the honest pitcher, too, falls in so dire a fret 
That its pallid form is presently bedewed with a chilly sweat. 

May blessings be showered upon the man who first devised this 

drink 
That happens along at five a. m. with its rapturous clinkety-clink ! 
I never have felt the cooling flood go sizzling down my throat 
But what I vowed to hymn a hymn to that clinkety-clink devote; 
So now, in the prime of my manhood, I polish this lyric gem 
For the uses of all good fellows who are thirsty at five a. m., 
But specially for those fellows who have known the pleasing thrall 
Of the clink of the ice in the pitcher the boy brings up the hall. 



THE BELLS OF NOTRE DAME 

What though the radiant thoroughfare 

Teems with a noisy throng? 
What though men bandy everywhere 

The ribald jest and song? 
Over the din of oaths and cries 

Broodeth a wondrous calm, 
And 'mid that solemn stillness rise 

The bells of Notre Dame. 



"Heed not, dear Lord," they seem to say, 

"Thy weak and erring child; 
And thou, O gentle Mother, pray 

That God be reconciled; 
And on mankind, O Christ, our King, 

Pour out Thy gracious balm," — 
'T is thus they plead and thus they sing, 

Those bells of Notre Dame. 



lover's lane, saint jo 75 

And so, methinks, God, bending down 

To ken the things of earth, 
Heeds not the mockery of the town 

Or cries of ribald mirth; 
For ever soundeth in His ears 

A penitential psalm, — 
'T is thy angelic voice He hears, 

O bells of Notre Dame! 

Plead on, O bells, that thy sweet voice 

May still forever be 
An intercession to rejoice 

Benign divinity; 
And that thy tuneful grace may fall 

Like dew, a quickening balm, 
Upon the arid hearts of all, 

O bells of Notre Dame/ 



LOVER'S LANE, SAINT JO 

Saint Jo, Buchanan County, 

Is leagues and leagues away, 
And I sit in the gloom of this rented room, 

And pine to be there to-day. 
Yes, with London fog around me 

And the bustling to and fro, 
I am fretting to be across the sea 

In Lover's Lane, Saint Jo. y 

I would have a brown-eyed maiden 

Go driving once again; 
And I 'd sing the song, as we snailed along, 

That I sung to that maiden then: 
I purposely say, "as we snailed along," 

For a proper horse goes slow T 
In those leafy aisles, where Cupid smiles, 

In Lover's Lane, Saint Jo. 



76 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

From her boudoir in the alders 

Would peep a lynx-eyed thrush, 
And we 'd hear her say, in a furtive way, 

To the noisy cricket, "Hush!" 
To think that the curious creature 

Should crane her neck to know 
The various things one says and sings 

In Lover's Lane, Saint Jo. 

But the maples they should shield us 

From the gossips of the place; 
Nor should the sun, except by pun, 

Profane the maiden's face; 
And the girl should do the driving, 

For a fellow can't, you know, 
Unless he 's neglectful of what 's quite respectful 

In Lover's Lane, Saint Jo. 

Ah! sweet the hours of springtime, 

When the heart inclines to woo, 
And it 's deemed all right for the callow wight 

To do what he wants to do; 
But cruel the age of winter, 

When the way of the world says no 
To the hoary men who would woo again 

In Lover's Lane, Saint Jo! 

In the Union Bank of London 

Are forty pounds or more, 
Which I 'm like to spend, ere the month shall end, 

In an antiquarian store; 
But I 'd give it all, and gladly, 

If for an hour or so 
I could feel the grace of a distant place, — 

Of Lover's Lane, Saint Jo. 

Let us sit awhile, beloved, 

And dream of the good old days, — 

Of the kindly shade which the maples made 
Round the stanch but squeaky chaise; 



CRUMPETS AND TEA 77 

With your head upon my shoulder, 

And my arm about you so, 
Though exiles, we shall seem to be 

In Lover's Lane, Saint Jo. 



CRUMPETS AND TEA 

There are happenings in life that are destined to rise 

Like dear, hallowed visions before a man's eyes; 

And the passage of years shall not dim in the least 

The glory and joy of our Sabbath-day feast, — 

The Sabbath-day luncheon that 's spread for us three,— 

My worthy companions, Teresa and Leigh, 

And me, all so hungry for crumpets and tea. 

There are cynics who say with invidious zest 
That a crumpet 's a thing that will never digest; 
But I happen to know that a crumpet is prime 
For digestion, if only you give it its time. 
Or if, by a chance, it should not quite agree, 
Why, who would begrudge a physician his fee 
For plying his trade upon crumpets and tea ? 

To toast crumpets quite a la mode, I require 
A proper long fork and a proper quick fire; 
And when they are browned, without further ado, 
I put on the butter, that soaks through and through. 
And meantime Teresa, directed by Leigh, 
Compounds and pours out a rich brew for us three; 
And so we sit down to our crumpets — and tea. 

A hand-organ grinds in the street a weird bit, — 

Confound those Italians! I wish they would quit 

Interrupting our feast with their dolorous airs, 

Suggestive of climbing the heavenly stairs. 

(It 's thoughts of the future, as all will agree, 

That we fain would dismiss from our bosoms when we 

Sit down to discussion of crumpets and tea!) 



78 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

The Sabbath-day luncheon whereof I now speak 
Quite answers its purpose the rest of the week; 
Yet with the next Sabbath I wait for the bell 
Announcing the man who has crumpets to sell; 
Then I scuttle downstairs in a frenzy of glee, 
And purchase for sixpence enough for us three, 
Who hunger and hanker for crumpets and tea. 

But soon — ah! too soon — I must bid a farewell 
To joys that succeed to the sound of that bell, 
Must hie me away from the dank, foggy shore 
That's filled me with colic and — yearnings for more! 
Then the cruel, the heartless, the conscienceless sea 
Shall bear me afar from Teresa and Leigh 
And the other twin friendships of crumpets and tea. 

Yet often, ay, ever, before my wan eyes 

That Sabbath-day luncheon of old shall arise. 

My stomach, perhaps, shall improve by the change, 

Since crumpets it seems to prefer at long range; 

But, oh, how my palate will hanker to be 

In London again with Teresa and Leigh, 

Enjoying the rapture of crumpets and tea! 



AN IMITATION OF DR. WATTS 

Through all my life the poor shall find 

In me a constant friend; 
And on the meek of every kind 

My mercy shall attend. 

The dumb shall never call on me 

In vain for kindly aid; 
And in my hands the blind shall see 

A bounteous alms displayed. 



THE TEA-GOWN 79 

In all their walks the lame shall know 

And feel my goodness near; 
And on the deaf will I bestow 

My gentlest words of cheer. 

'T is by such pious works as these, 

Which I delight to do, 
That men their fellow-creatures please, 

And please their Maker too. 



THE TEA-GOWN 

My lady has a tea-gown 

That is wondrous fair to see, — 
It is flounced and ruffed and plaited and puffed, 

As a tea-gown ought to be; 
And I thought she must be jesting 

Last night at supper when 
She remarked, by chance, that it came from France, 

And had cost but two pounds ten. 

Had she told me fifty shillings, 

I might (and would n't you ?) 
Have referred to that dress in a way folks express 

By an eloquent dash or two; 
But the guileful little creature 

Knew well her tactics when 
She casually said that that dream in red 

Had cost but two pounds ten. 

Yet our home is all the brighter 

For that dainty, sentient thing, 
That floats away where it properly may, 

And clings where it ought to cling; 
And I count myself the luckiest 

Of all us married men 
That I have a wife whose joy in life 

Is a gown at two pounds ten. 



80 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

It is n't the gown compels me 

Condone this venial sin; 
It 's the pretty face above the lace, 

And the gentle heart within. 
And with her arms about me 

I say, and say again, 
" 'T was wondrous cheap," — and I think a heap 

Of that gown at two pounds ten! 



DOCTORS 



'T is quite the thing to say and sing 

Gross libels on the doctor, — 
To picture him an ogre grim 

Or humbug-pill concocter; 
Yet it 's in quite another light 

My friendly pen would show him, 
Glad that it may with verse repay 

Some part of what I owe him. 

When one 's all right, he 's prone to spite 

The doctor's peaceful mission; 
But when he 's sick, it 's loud and quick 

He bawls for a physician. 
With other things, the doctor brings 

Sweet babes, our hearts to soften: 
Though I have four, I pine for more, — 

Good doctor, pray come often! 

What though he sees death and disease 

Run riot all around him? 
Patient and true, and valorous too, 

Such have I always found him. 
Where'er he goes, he soothes our woes; 

And when skill 's unavailing, 
And death is near, his words of cheer 

Support our courage failing. 



DOCTORS 81 

In ancient days they used to praise 

The godlike art of healing, — 
An art that then engaged all men 

Possessed of sense and feeling. 
Why, Raleigh, he was glad to be 

Famed for a quack elixir; 
And Digby sold, as we are told, 

A charm for folk lovesick, sir. 

Napoleon knew a thing or two, 

And clearly he was partial 
To doctors, for in time of war 

He chose one for a marshal. 
In our great cause a doctor was 

The first to pass death's portal, 
And Warren's name at once became 

A beacon and immortal. 

A heap, indeed, of what we read 

By doctors is provided; 
For to those groves Apollo loves 

Their leaning is decided. 
Deny who may that Rabelais 

Is first in wit and learning, 
And yet all smile and marvel while 

His brilliant leaves they 're turning. 

How Lever's pen has charmed all men! 

How touching Rab's short story! 
And I will stake my all that Drake 

Is still the school-boy's glory. 
A doctor-man it was began 

Great Britain's great museum, — 
The treasures there are all so rare, 

It drives me wild to see 'em! 

There 's Cuvier, Parr, and Rush; they are 

Big monuments to learning. 
To Mitchell's prose (how smooth it flows!) 

We all are fondly turning. 



82 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

Tomi\s might be writ of that keen wit 
Which Abernethy's famed for; 

With bread-crumb pills he cured the ills 
Most doctors now get blamed for. 

In modern times the noble rhymes 

Of Holmes, a great physician, 
Have solace brought and wisdom taught 

To hearts of all condition. 
The sailor, bound for Puget Sound, 

Finds pleasure still unfailing, 
If he but troll the barcarole 

Old Osborne wrote on Whaling. 

If there were need, I could proceed 

Ad naus. with this prescription, 
But, inter nos, sl larger dose 

Might give you fits conniption; 
Yet, ere I end, there's one dear friend 

I 'd hold before these others, 
For he and I in years gone by 

Have chummed around like brothers. 

Together we have sung in glee 

The song old Horace made for 
Our genial craft, together quaffed 

What bowls that doctor paid for! 
I love the rest, but love him best; 

And, were not times so pressing, 
I 'd buy and send — you smile, old friend ? 

Well, then, here goes my blessing. 



BARBARA 83 



BARBARA 



Blithe was the youth that summer day, 

As he smote at the ribs of earth, 
And he plied his pick with a merry click, 

And he whistled anon in mirth; 
And the constant thought of his dear one's face 
Seemed to illumine that ghostly place. 

The gaunt earth envied the lover's joy, 
And she moved, and closed on his head: 

With no one nigh and with never a cry 
The beautiful boy lay dead; 

And the treasure he sought for his sweetheart fair 

Crumbled, and clung to his glorious hair. 

Fifty years is a mighty space 

In the human toil for bread; 
But to Love and to Death 't is merely a breath, 

A dream that is quickly sped, — 
Fifty years, and the fair lad lay 
Just as he fell that summer day. 

At last came others in quest of gold, 
And hewed in that mountain place; 

And deep in the ground one time they found 
The boy with the smiling face: 

All uncorrupt by the pitiless air, 

He lay, with his crown of golden hair. 

They bore him up to the sun again, 

And laid him beside the brook, 
And the folk came down from the busy town 

To wonder and prate and look; 
And so, to a world that knew him not, 
The boy came back to the old-time spot. 

Old Barbara hobbled among the rest, — 
Wrinkled and bowed was she, — 



84 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

And she gave a cry, as she fared anigh, 

"At last he is come to me!" 
And she kneeled by the side of the dead boy there, 
And she kissed his lips, and she stroked his hair. 

''Thine eyes are sealed, O dearest one! 

And better it is 't is so, 
Else thou might 'st see how harsh with me 

Dealt Life thou couldst not know 
Kindlier Death has kept thee fair; 
The sorrow of Life hath been my share." 

Barbara bowed her aged face, 

And fell on the breast of her dead; 

And the golden hair of her dear one there 
Caressed her snow-white head. 

Oh, Life is sweet, with its touch of pain; 

But sweeter the Death that joined those twain. 



THE CAFE MOLINEAU 

The Cafe Molineau is where 

A dainty little minx 
Serves God and men as best she can 
By serving meats and drinks. 
Oh, such an air the creature has, 

And such a pretty face! 
I took delight that autumn night 

In hanging round the place. 

I know but very little French 

(I have not long been here) ; 
But when she spoke, her meaning broke 

Full sweetly on my ear. 
Then, too, she seemed to understand 

Whatever I 'd to say, 
Though most I knew was "oony poo," 

"Bong zhoor," and "see voo play." 



HOLLY AND IVY 85 

The female wit is always quick, 

And of all womankind 
"T is here in France that you, perchance, 

The keenest wits shall find; 
And here you '11 find that subtle gift, 

That rare, distinctive touch, 
Combined with grace of form and face, 

That glads men overmuch. 

"Our girls at home," I mused aloud, 

"Lack either that or this; 
They don't combine the arts divine 

As does the Gallic miss. 
Far be it from me to malign 

Our belles across the sea, 
And yet I '11 swear none can compare 

With this ideal She." 

And then I praised her dainty foot 

In very awful French, 
And parleywood in guileful mood 

Until the saucy wench 
Tossed back her haughty auburn head, 

And froze me with disdain: 
"There are on me no flies," said she, 

"For I come from Bangor, Maine!" 



HOLLY AND IVY 

Holly standeth in ye house 

When that Noel draweth near; 

Evermore at ye door 

Standeth Ivy, shivering sore 

In ye night wind bleak and drear; 

And, as weary hours go by, 

Doth ye one to other cry. 



86 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

"Sister Holly," Ivy quoth, 

"What is that within you see? 

To and fro doth ye glow 

Of ye yule-log flickering go; 

Would its warmth did cherish me! 

Where thou bidest is it warm; 

I am shaken of ye storm." 

"Sister Ivy," Holly quoth, 

"Brightly burns the yule-log here, 
And love brings beauteous things, 
While a guardian angel sings 

To the babes that slumber near; 
But, O Ivy! tell me now, 
What without there seest thou?" 

"Sister Holly," Ivy quoth, 

"With fair music comes ye Morn, 
And afar burns ye Star 
Where ye wondering shepherds are 

And the Shepherd King is born: 
' Peace on earth, good-will to men/ 
Angels cry, and cry again." 

Holly standeth in ye house 

When that Noel draweth near; 

Clambering o'er yonder door, 

Ivy standeth evermore; 

And to them that rightly hear 

Each one speaketh of ye love 

That outpoureth from Above. 



THE BOLTONS, 22 

When winter nights are grewsome, and the heavy, yellow fog 
Gives to Piccadilly semblance of a dank, malarious bog; 
When a demon, with companion in similitude of bell, 
Goes round informing people he has crumpets for to sell; 



THE BOLTONS, 22 87 

When a weird, asthmatic minstrel haunts your door for hours along, 
Until you've paid him tu'pence for the thing he calls a song, — 
When, in short, the world 's against you, and you 'd give that 

world, and more, 
To lay your weary heart at rest upon your native shore, 
There 's happily one saving thing for you and yours to do : 
Go call on Isaac Henderson, The Boltons, 22. 

The place is all so cheery and so warm, I love to spend 
My evenings in communion with the genial host, my friend. 
One sees chefs d'ceuvre of masters in profusion on the walls, 
And a monster canine swaggers up and down the spacious halls; 
There are divers things of beauty to astound, instruct, and please, 
And everywhere assurance of contentment and of ease: 
But best of all the gentle hearts I meet with in the place, — 
The host's good-fellowship, his wife's sincere and modest grace; 
Why, if there be cordiality that warms you through and through, 
It 's found at Isaac Henderson's, The Boltons, 22. 

My favorite room 's the study that is on the second floor; 
And there we sit in judgment on men and things galore. 
The fire burns briskly in the grate, and sheds a genial glare 
On me, who most discreetly have pre-empted Isaac's chair, — 
A big, low chair, with grateful springs, and curious device 
To keep a fellow's cerebellum comf'table and nice. 
A shade obscures the functions of the stately lamp, in spite 
Of Mrs. Henderson's demands for somewhat more of light; 
But he and I demur, and say a mystic gloom will do 
For winter-night communion at the Boltons, 22. 

Sometimes he reads me Browning, or from Bryant culls a bit, 
And sometimes plucks a gem from Hood's philosophy and wit; 
And oftentimes I tell him yarns, and (what I fear is worse) 
Recite him sundry specimens of woolly Western verse. 
And while his muse and mine transcend the bright Horatian's stars, 
He smokes his modest pipe, and I — I smoke his choice cigars! 
For best of mild Havanas this considerate host supplies, — 
The proper brand, the proper shade, and quite the proper size; 
And so I buckle down and smoke and smoke, — and so will you, 
If ever you 're invited to the Boltons, 22. 



55 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

But, oh! the best of worldly joys is as a dream short-lived: 

'T is twelve o'clock, and Robinson reports our cab arrived. 

A last libation ere we part, and hands all round, and then 

A cordial invitation to us both to come again. 

So home through Piccadilly and through Oxford Street we jog, 

On slippery, noisy pavements and in blinding, choking fog, — 

The same old route through Circus, Square, and Quadrant we 

retrace, 
Till we reach the princely mansion known as 20 Alfred Place; 
And then we seek our feathery beds of cotton to renew 
In dreams the sweet distractions of the Boltons, 22. 

God bless you, good friend Isaac, and your lovely, gracious wife; 
May health and wealth attend you, and happiness, through life; 
And as you sit of evenings that quiet room within, 
Know that in spirit I shall be your guest as I have been. 
So fill and place beside that chair that dainty claret-cup; 
Methinks that ghostly hands shall take the tempting offering up, 
That ghostly lips shall touch the bowl and quaff the ruby wine, 
Pledging in true affection this toast to thee and thine: 
"May God's best blessings fall as falls the gentle, gracious dew 
Upon the kindly household at the Boltons, 22!" 



DIBDIN'S GHOST 

Dear wife, last midnight, whilst I read 

The tomes you so despise, 
A spectre rose beside the bed, 

And spake in this true wise: 
"From Canaan's beatific coast 

I 've come to visit thee, 
For I am Frognall Dibdin's ghost," 

Says Dibdin's ghost to me. 

I bade him welcome, and we twain 
Discussed with buoyant hearts 

The various things that appertain 
To bibliomaniac arts. 



dibdin's ghost 89 

"Since you are fresh from t' other side, 

Pray tell me of that host 
That treasured books before they died," 

Says I to Dibdin's ghost. 

"They 've entered into perfect rest; 

For in the life they 've won 
There are no auctions to molest, 

No creditors to dun. 
Their heavenly rapture has no bounds 

Beside that jasper sea; 
It is a joy unknown to Lowndes," 

Says Dibdin's ghost to me. 

Much I rejoiced to hear him speak 

Of biblio-bliss above, 
For I am one of those who seek 

What bibliomaniacs love. 
"But tell me, for I long to hear 

What doth concern me most, 
Are wives admitted to that sphere?" 

Says I to Dibdin's ghost. 

"The women folk are few up there; 

For 't were not fair, you know, 
That they our heavenly joy should share 

Who vex us here below. 
The few are those who have been kind 

To husbands such as we; 
They knew our fads, and did n't mind," 

Says Dibdin's ghost to me. 

"But what of those who scold at us 

When we would read in bed? 
Or, wanting victuals, make a fuss 

If we buy- books instead ? 
And what of those who 've dusted not 

Our motley pride and boast, — 
Shall they profane that sacred spot?" 

Says I to Dibdin's ghost. 



90 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

"Oh, no! they tread that other path, 

Which leads where torments roll, 
And worms, yes, bookworms, vent their wrath 

Upon the guilty soul. 
Untouched of bibliomaniac grace, 

That saveth such as we, 
They wallow in that dreadful place," 

Says Dibdin's ghost to me. 

"To my dear wife will I recite 

What things I 've heard you say; 
She '11 let me read the books by night, 

She 's let me buy by day. 
For we together by and by 

Would join that heavenly host; 
She 's earned a rest as well as I," 

Says I to Dibdin's ghost. 



THE BOTTLE AND THE BIRD 

Once on a time a friend of mine prevailed on me to go 
To see the dazzling splendors of a sinful ballet show; 
And after we had revelled in the saltatory sights, 
We sought a neighboring cafe for more tangible delights. 
When I demanded of my friend what viands he preferred, 
He quoth: "A large cold bottle, and a small hot bird!" 

Fool that I was, I did not know what anguish hidden lies 

Within the morceau that allures the nostrils and the eyes! 

There is a glorious candor in an honest quart of wine, 

A certain inspiration which I cannot well define! 

How it bubbles, how it sparkles, how its gurgling seems to say: 

"Come! on a tide of rapture let me float your soul away!" 

But the crispy, steaming mouthful that is spread upon your plate, — 

How it discounts human sapience and satirizes fate! 

You wouldn't think a thing so small could cause the pains and aches 



THE BOTTLE AND THE BIRD 91 

That certainly accrue to him that of that thing partakes; 
To me, at least (a guileless wight!), it never once occurred 
What horror was encompassed in that small hot bird. 

Oh! what a head I had on me when I awoke next day, 
And what a firm conviction of intestinal decay! 
What seas of mineral water and of bromide I applied 
To quench those fierce volcanic fires that rioted inside! 
And, oh, the thousand solemn, awful vows I plighted then 
Never to tax my system with a small hot bird again! 

The doctor seemed to doubt that birds could worry people so, 
But, bless him! since I ate the bird, I guess I ought to know! 
The acidous condition of my stomach, so he said, 
Bespoke a vinous irritant that amplified my head, 
And, ergo, the causation of the thing, as he inferred, 
Was the large cold bottle, — not the small hot bird. 

Of course I know it was n't, and I 'm sure you '11 say I 'm right 

If ever it has been your wont to train around at night. 

How sweet is retrospection when one's heart is bathed in wine, 

And before its balmy breath how do the ills of life decline! 

How the gracious juices drown what griefs would vex a mortal 

breast, 
And float the flattered soul into the port of dreamless rest! 

But you, O noxious, pigmy bird! whether it be you fly, 
Or paddle in the stagnant pools that sweltering, festering lie, — 
J. curse you and your evil kind for that you do me wrong, 
Engendering poisons that corrupt my petted muse of song; 
Go, get thee hence! and never more discomfit me and mine, — 
I fain would barter all thy brood for one sweet draught of wine! 

So hither come, O sportive youth! when fades the telltale day, — 
Come hither, with your fillets and your wreaths of posies gay; 
We shall unloose the fragrant seas of seething, frothing wine 
Which now the cobwebbed glass and envious wire and corks 

confine, 
And midst the pleasing revelry the praises shall be heard 
Of the large cold bottle, — not the small hot bird! 



92 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 



CARLSBAD 

Dear Palmer, just a year ago we did the Carlsbad cure, 
Which, though it be exceeding slow, is as exceeding sure; 
To corpulency you were prone, dyspepsia bothered me, — 
You tipped the beam at twenty stone and I at ten stone three! 
The cure,- they told us, works both ways: it makes the fat man lean; 
The thin man, after many days, achieves a portly mien; 
And though it 's true you still are fat, while I am like a crow, — 
All skin and feathers, — what of that? The cure takes time, you 
know. 

The Carlsbad scenery is sublime, — that 's what the guide-books say; 

We did not think so at that time, nor think I so to-day! 

The bluffs that squeeze the panting town permit no pleasing views, 

But weigh the mortal spirits down and give a chap the blues. 

With nothing to amuse us then or mitigate our spleen, 

We rose and went to bed again, with three bad meals between; 

And constantly we made our moan, — ah, none so drear as we, 

When you were weighing twenty stone and I but ten stone three! 

We never scaled the mountain-side, for walking was my bane, 
And you were much too big to ride the mules that there obtain; 
And so we loitered in the shade, with Israel out in force, 
Or through the Pupp'sche allee strayed and heard the band dis- 
course. 
Sometimes it pleased us to recline upon the Tepl's brink, 
Or watch the bilious human line file round to get a drink; 
Anon the portier's piping tone embittered you and me, . 
When you were weighing twenty stone and I but ten stone three! 

And oh! those awful things to eat! No pudding, cake, or pie, 

But just a little dab of meat, and crusts absurdly dry; 

Then, too, that water twice a day, — one swallow was enough 

To take one's appetite away, — the tepid, awful stuff! 

Tortured by hunger's cruel stings, I 'd little else to do 

Than feast my eyes upon the things prescribed and cooked for you. 

The goodies went to you alone, the husks all fell to me, 

When you were weighing twenty stone and I weighed ten stone three. 



RED 93 

Yet happy days! and rapturous ills! and sweetly dismal date! 
When, sandwiched in between those hills, we twain bemoaned 

our fate. 
The little woes we suffered then like mists have sped away, 
And I were glad to share again those ills with you to-day, — 
To flounder in those rains of June that flood that Austrian vale, 
To quaff that tepid Kaiserbrunn and starve on victuals stale! 
And often, leagues and leagues away from where we suffered then, 
With envious yearnings I survey what cannot be again! 

And often in my quiet home, through dim and misty eyes, 

I seem to see that curhaus dome blink at the radiant skies ; 

I seem to hear that Wiener band above the Tepl's roar, — 

To feel the pressure of your hand and hear your voice once more ; 

And, better yet, my heart is warm with thoughts of you and yours, 

For friendship hath a sweeter charm than thrice ten thousand cures! 

So I am happy to have known that time across the sea 

When you were weighing twenty stone and I weighed ten stone three. 



RED 



Any color, so long as it 's red, 

Is the color that suits me best, 
Though I will allow there is much to be said 

For yellow and green and the rest; 
But the feeble tints which some affect 

In the things they make or buy 
Have never — I say it with all respect — 

Appealed to my critical eye. 

There 's that in red that warmeth the blood, 

And quickeneth a man within, 
And bringeth to speedy and perfect bud 

The germs of original sin; 
So, though I 'm properly born and bred, 

I '11 own, with a certain zest, 
That any color, so long as it 's red, 

Is the color that suits me best. 



94 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

For where is the color that can compare 

With the blush of a buxom lass; 
Or where such warmth as of the hair 

Of the genuine white horse class? 
And, lo! reflected within this cup 

Of cheery Bordeaux I see 
What inspiration girdeth me up, — 

Yes, red is the color for me! 

Through acres and acres of art I 've strayed 

In Italy, Germany, France; 
On many a picture a master has made 

I 've squandered a passing glance: 
Marines I hate, madonnas and 

Those Dutch freaks I detest; 
But the peerless daubs of my native land, — 

They 're red, and I like them best. 

'T is little I care how folk deride, — 

I 'm backed by the W 7 est, at least; 
And we are free to say that we can't abide 

The tastes that obtain down East; 
And we 're mighty proud to have it said 

That here in the versatile West 
Most any color, so long as it 's red, 

Is the color that suits us best. 



AT CHEYENNE 

Young Lochinvar came in from the West, 
With fringe on his trousers and fur on his vest; 
The width of his hat-brim could nowhere be beat, 
His No. 10 brogans were chuck full of feet, 
His girdle was horrent with pistols and things, 
And he flourished a handful of aces on kings. 



THE PNEUMOGASTRIC NERVE 95 

The fair Mariana sate watching a star, 

When who should turn up but the young Lochinvar! 

Her pulchritude gave him a pectoral glow, 

And he reined up his hoss with stentorian "Whoa!" 

Then turned on the maiden a rapturous grin, 

And modestly asked if he might n't step in. 

With presence of mind that was marvellous quite, 
The fair Mariana replied that he might; 
So in through the portal rode young Lochinvar, 
Pre-empted the claim, and cleaned out the bar. 
Though the justice allowed he wa'n't wholly to blame, 
He taxed him ten dollars and costs, just the same. 



THE PNEUMOGASTRIC NERVE 

Upon an average, twice a week, 

When anguish clouds my brow, 
My good physician friend I seek 

To know "what ails me now." 
He taps me on the back and chest, 

And scans my tongue for bile, 
And lays an ear against my breast 

And listens there awhile; 
Then is he ready to admit 

That all he can observe 
Is something wrong inside, to wit: 

My pneumogastric nerve! 

Now, when these Latin names within 

Dyspeptic hulks like mine 
Go wrong, a fellow should begin 

To draw what's called the line. 
It seems, however, that this same, 

Which in my hulks abounds, 
Is not, despite its awful name, 

So fatal as it sounds; 



96 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

Yet of all torments known to me, 
I '11 say without reserve, 

There is no torment like to thee, 
Thou pneumogastric nerve! 

This subtle, envious nerve appears 

To be a patient foe, — 
It waited nearly forty years 

Its chance to lay me low; 
Then, like some blithering blast of hell, 

It struck this guileless bard, 
And in that evil hour I fell 

Prodigious far and hard. 
Alas! what things I dearly love — 

Pies, puddings, and preserves — 
Are sure to rouse the vengeance of 

All pneumogastric nerves! 

Oh that I could remodel man! 

I 'd end these cruel pains 
By hitting on a different plan 

From that which now obtains. 
The stomach, greatly amplified, 

Anon should occupy 
The all of that domain inside 

Where heart and lungs now lie. 
But, first of all, I should depose 

That diabolic curve 
And author of my thousand woes, 

The pneumogastric nerve! 



TELKA 



Through those golden summer days 
Our twin flocks were wont to graze 
On the hillside, which the sun 
Rested lovingly upon, — 
Telka's flock and mine; and we 



TELKA 97 



Sung our songs in rapturous glee, 
Idling in the pleasant shade 
Which the solemn Yew-tree made, 
While the Brook anear us played, 
And a white Rose, ghost-like, grew 
In the shadow of the Yew. 

Telka loved me passing well; 
How I loved her none can tell! 
How I love her none may know,— 
Oh, that man loves woman so! 
When she was not at my side, 
Loud my heart in anguish cried, 
And my lips, till she replied. 
Yet they think to silence me, — 
As if love could silenced be! 
Fool were I, and fools were they! 
Still I wend my lonely way, 
" Telka," evermore I cry; 
Answer me the woods and sky, 
And the weary years go by. 

Telka, she was passing fair; 
And the glory of her hair 
Was such glory as the sun 
With his blessing casts upon 
Yonder lonely mountain height, 
Lifting up to bid good-night 
To her sovereign in the west, 
Sinking wearily to rest, 
Drowsing in that golden sea 
Where the realms of Dreamland be„ 

So our love to fulness grew, 
Whilst beneath the solemn Yew 
Ghost-like paled the Rose of white, 
As it were some fancied sight 
Blanched it with a dread affright. 
Telka, she was passing fair; 
And our peace was perfect there 



98 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

Till, enchanted by her smile, 
Lurked the South Wind there awhile, 
Underneath that hillside tree 
Where with singing idled we, 
And I heard the South Wind say 
Flattering words to her that day 
Of a city far away. 
But the Yew-tree crouched as though 
It were like to whisper No 
To the words the South wind said 
As he smoothed my Telka's head. 
And the Brook, all pleading, cried 
To the dear one at my side: 
" Linger always where I am; 
Stray not thence, O cosset lamb! 
Wander not where shadows deep 
On the treacherous quicksands sleep, 
And the haunted waters leap; 
Be thou ware the waves that flow 
Toward the prison pool below, 
Where, beguiled from yonder sky, 
Captive moonbeams shivering lie, 
And at dawn of morrow die." 
So the Brook to Telka cried, 
But my Telka naught replied; 
And, as in a strange affright, 
Paled the Rose a ghostlier white. 

When anon the North Wind came, — 
Rudely blustering Telka's name, 
And he kissed the leaves that grew 
Round about the trembling Yew, — 
Kissed and romped till, blushing red, 
All one day in terror fled, 
And the white Rose hung her head; 
Coming to our trysting spot, 
Long I called; she answered not. 
" Telka!" pleadingly I cried 
Up and down the mountain-side 
Where we twain were wont to bide. 



TELKA 99 

There were those who thought that I 
Could be silenced with a lie, 
And they told me Telka's name 
Should be spoken now with shame; 
"She is lost to us and thee," — 
That is what they said to me. 

"Is my Telka lost?" quoth I. 
"On this hilltop shall I cry, 
So that she may hear and then 
Find her way to me again. 
The South Wind spoke a lie that day; 
All deceived, she lost her way; 
Yonder where the shadows sleep 
'Mongst the haunted waves that leap 
Over treacherous quicksands deep, 
And where captive moonbeams lie 
Doomed at morrow's dawn to die, 
She is lost, and that is all; 
I will search for her, and call." 

Summer comes and winter goes, 
Buds the Yew and blooms the Rose; 
All the others are anear, — 
Only Telka is not here! 
Gone the peace and love I knew 
Sometime 'neath the hillside Yew; 
And the Rose, that mocks me so, 
I had crushed it long ago 
But that Telka loved it then, 
And shall soothe its terror when 
She comes back to me again. 
Call I, seek I everywhere 
For my Telka, passing fair. 

It is, oh, so many a year 

I have called! She does not hear, 

Yet nor feared nor worn am I; 

For I know that if I cry 

She shall sometime hear my call. 



100 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

She is lost, and that is all, — 
She is lost in some far spot; 
I have searched, and found it not. 
Could she hear me calling, then 
Would she come to me again; 
For she loved me passing well, — 
How I love her none can tell! 
That is why these years I 've cried 
"Telka!" on this mountain-side. 
"Telka!" still I, pleading, cry; 
Answer me the woods and sky, 
And the lonely years go by. 

On an evening dark and chill 
Came a shadow up the hill, — 
Came a spectre, grim and white 
As a ghost that walks the night, 
Grim and bowed, and with the cry 
Of a wretch about to die, — 
Came and fell and cried to me: 
"It is Telka come!" said she. 
So she fell and so she cried 
On that lonely mountain-side 
Where was Telka wont to bide. 

"Who hath bribed those lips to lie? 
Telka' s face was fair," quoth I; 
"Thine is furrowed with despair. 
There is winter in thy hair; 
But upon her beauteous head 
Was there summer glory shed, — 
Such a glory as the sun, 
When his daily course is run, 
Smiles upon this mountain height 
As he kisses it good-night. 
There was music in her tone, 
Misery in thy voice alone. 
They have bid thee lie to me. 
Let me pass! Thou art not she! 
Let my sorrow sacred be 
Underneath this trysting tree!" 



PLAINT OF THE MISSOURI 'COON 101 

So in wrath I went my way, 
And they came another day, — 
Came another day, and said: 
"Hush thy cry, for she is dead. 
Yonder on the mountain-side 
She is buried where she died, 
Where you twain were wont to bide. 
Where she came and fell and cried 
Pardon that thy wrath denied; 
And above her bosom grows 
As in mockery the Rose: 
It was white; but now 't is red, 
And in shame it bows its head 
Over sinful Telka dead." 

So they thought to silence me, — 
As if love could silenced be! 
Fool were I, and fools were they! 
Scornfully I went my way, 
And upon the mountain-side 
"Telka!" evermore I cried. 
"Telka!" evermore I cry; 
Answer me the woods and sky: 
So the lonely years go by. 

She is lost, and that is all; 
Sometime she shall hear my call, 
Hear my pleading call, and then 
Find her way to me again. 



PLAINT OF THE MISSOURI 'COON IN THE BERLIN 
ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS 

Friend, by the way you hump yourself you 're from the States, I 

know, 
And born in old Mizzoorah, where the 'coons in plenty grow. 
I, too, am native of that clime; but harsh, relentless fate 
Has doomed me to an exile far from that noble State; 



102 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

And I, who used to climb around, and swing from tree to tree, 
Now lead a life of ignominious ease, as you can see. 
Have pity, O compatriot mine! and bide a season near, 
While I unfurl a dismal tale to catch your friendly ear. 

My pedigree is noble: they used my grandsire's skin 

To piece a coat for Patterson to warm himself within, — 

Tom Patterson, of Denver; no ermine can compare 

With the grizzled robe that Democratic statesman loves to wear. 

Of such a grandsire I am come; and in the County Cole 

All up an ancient cottonwood our family had its hole. 

We envied not the liveried pomp nor proud estate of kings, 

As we hustled round from day to day in search of bugs and things. 

And when the darkness fell around, a mocking-bird was nigh, 
Inviting pleasant, soothing dreams with his sweet lullaby; 
And sometimes came the yellow dog to brag around all night 
That nary 'coon could wallop him in a stand-up barrel fight. 
We simply smiled and let him howl, for all Mizzoorians know 
That ary 'coon can best a dog, if the coon gets half a show; 
But we 'd nestle close and shiver when the mellow moon had ris'n, 
And the hungry nigger sought our lair in hopes to make us his'n. 

Raised as I was, it 's hardly strange I pine for those old days; 
I cannot get acclimated, or used to German ways. 
The victuals that they give me here may all be very fine 
For vulgar, common palates, but they will not do for mine. 
The 'coon that 's been accustomed to stanch Democratic cheer 
Will not put up with onion tarts and sausage steeped in beer! 
No; let the rest, for meat and drink, accede to slavish terms, 
But send me back from whence I came, and let me grub for worms ! 

They come, these gaping Teutons do, on Sunday afternoons, 
And wonder what I am, — alas, there are no German 'coons! 
For if there were, I still might swing at home from tree to tree, 
The symbol of Democracy, that 's woolly, blithe, and free. 
And yet for what my captors are I would not change my lot, 
For I have tasted liberty, these others, they have not; 
So, even caged, the Democratic 'coon more glory feels 
Than the conscript German puppets with their swords about their 
heels. 



THE PARTRIDGE 103 

Well, give my love to Crittenden, to Clardy, and O'Neill, 
To Jasper Burke and Colonel Jones, and tell 'em how I feel; 
My compliments to Cockrill, Stephens, Switzler, Francis, Vest, 
Bill Nelson, J. West Goodwin, Jedge Broadhead, and the rest. 
Bid them be steadfast in the faith, and pay no heed at all 
To Joe McCullagh's badinage or Chauncey Filley's gall; 
And urge them to retaliate for what I 'm suffering here 
By cinching all the alien class that wants its Sunday beer. 



THE PARTRIDGE 

As beats the sun from mountain crest, 

With " Pretty, pretty," 
Cometh the partridge from her nest. 
The flowers threw kisses sweet to her 
(For all the flowers that bloomed knew her); 
Yet hasteneth she to mine and me, — 

Ah, pretty, pretty! 

Ah, dear little partridge! 

And when I hear the partridge cry 

So pretty, pretty, 
Upon the house-top breakfast I. 
She comes a-chirping far and wide. 
And swinging from the mountain-side 
I see and hear the dainty dear, — 

Ah, pretty, pretty! 

Ah, dear little partridge! 

Thy nest 's inlaid with posies rare, 

And pretty, pretty, 
Bloom violet, rose, and lily there; 
The place is full of balmy dew 
(The tears of flowers in love with you!); 
And one and all, impassioned, call, 

"O pretty, pretty! 

O dear little partridge!" 



104 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

Thy feathers they are soft and sleek, — 

So pretty, pretty! 
Long is thy neck, and small thy beak, 
The color of thy plumage far 
More bright than rainbow colors are. 
Sweeter than dove is she I love, — 

My pretty, pretty! 

My dear little partridge! 

When comes the partridge from the tree, 

So pretty, pretty, 
And sings her little hymn to me, 
Why, all the world is cheered thereby, 
The heart leaps up into the eye, 
And Echo then gives back again 
Our " Pretty, pretty!" 
Our "Dear little partridge!" 

Admitting thee most blest of all, 

And pretty, pretty, 
The birds come with thee at thy call; 
In flocks they come, and round thee play, 
And this is what they seem to say: — 
They say, and sing, each feathered thing, 

"Ah, pretty, pretty! 

Ah, dear little partridge!" 



CORINTHIAN HALL 

Corinthian Hall is a tumble-down place, 
Which some finical folks have pronounced a disgrace; 
But once was a time when Corinthian Hall 
Excited the rapture and plaudits of all, 

W T ith its carpeted stairs, 

And its new yellow chairs, 
And its stunning ensemble of citified airs. 
Why, the Atchison Champion said 't was the best 
Of Thespian temples extant in the West. 



CORINTHIAN HALL 105 

It was new, and was ours, — that was ages ago, 

Before opry had spoiled the legitimate show, — 

It was new, and was ours! We could toss back the jeers 

Our rivals had launched at our city for years. 

Corinthian Hall, 

Why, it discounted all 
Other halls in the Valley, and well I recall 
The night of the opening; from near and afar 
Came the crowd to see Toodles performed by De Bar. 

Oh, those days they were palmy, and never again 
Shall earth see such genius as gladdened us then; 
For actors were actors, and each one knew how 
To whoop up his art in the sweat of his brow. 
He 'd a tragedy air, and wore copious hair; 
And when he ate victuals, he ordered 'em rare. 
Dame Fortune ne'er feazed him, — in fact, never could 
When liquor was handy and walking was good. 

And the shows in those days! Ah, how well I recall 
The shows that I saw in Corinthian Hall! . 
Maggie Mitchell and Lotty were then in their prime; 
And as for Jane Coombs, she was simply sublime; 
And I 'm ready to swear there is none could compare 
With Breslau in Borgia, supported by Fair; 
While in passionate roles it was patent to us 
That the great John A. Stevens was ne ultra plus. 

And was there demand for the tribute of tears, 

We had sweet Charlotte Thompson those halcyon years, 

And wee Katie Putnam. The savants allow 

That the like of Kate Fisher ain't visible now. 

What artist to-day have we equal to Rae, 

Or to sturdy Jack Langrishe? God rest 'em, I say! 

And when died Buchanan, the "St. Jo Gazette" 

Opined that the sun of our drama had set. 

Corinthian Hall was devoted to song 

When the Barnabee concert troupe happened along, 



106 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

Or Ossian E. Dodge, or the Comical Brown, 

Or the Holmans with William H. Crane struck our town; 

But the one special card 

That hit us all hard 
Was Caroline Richings and Peter Bernard; 
And the bells of the Bergers still ring in my ears; 
And, oh, how I laughed at Sol Russell those years! 

The Haverly Minstrels were boss in those days, 

And our critics accorded them columns of praise; 

They'd handsome mustaches and big cluster rings, 

And their shirt fronts were blazing with diamonds and things; 

They gave a parade, and sweet music they made 

Every evening in front of the house where they played. 

'Twixt posters and hand-bills the town was agog 

For Primrose and West in their great statue clog. 

Many years intervene, yet I 'm free to maintain 

That I doted on Chanfrau, McWade, and Frank Frayne; 

Tom Stivers, the local, declared for a truth 

That Mayo as Hamlet was better than Booth: 

While in roles that were thrillin', involving much killin', 

Jim Wallick loomed up our ideal of a villain; 

Mrs. Bowers, Alvin Joslin, Frank Aiken, — they all 

Earned their titles to fame in Corinthian Hall. 

But Time, as begrudging the glory that fell 
On the spot I revere and remember so well, 
Spent his spite on the timbers, the plaster, and paint, 
And breathed on them all his morbiferous taint; 
So the trappings of gold and the gear manifold 
Got gangrened with rust and rheumatic with mould, 
And we saw dank decay and oblivion fall, 
Like vapors of night, on Corinthian Hall. 

When the gas is ablaze in the opry at night, 
And the music goes floating on billows of light, 
Why, I often regret that I 'm grown to a man, 
And I pine to be back where my mission began, 



THE RED, RED WEST 107 

And I 'm fain to recall 

Reminiscences all 
That come with the thought of Corinthian Hall, — 
To hear and to see what delighted me then, 
And to revel in raptures of boyhood again. 

Though Corinthian Hall is a tumble-down place, 
Which some finical folks have pronounced a disgrace, 
There is one young old boy, quite as worthy as they, 
Who, aweary of art as expounded to-day, 

Would surrender what gold 

He 's amassed to behold 
A tithe of the wonderful doings of old, 
A glimpse of the glories that used to enthrall 
Our crime de la creme in Corinthian Hall. 



THE RED, RED WEST 

I 've travelled in heaps of countries, and studied all kinds of art, 
Till there is n't a critic or connoisseur who 's properly deemed so 

smart; 
And I 'm free to say that the grand results of my explorations show 
That somehow paint gets redder the farther out West I go. 

I 've sipped the voluptuous sherbet that the Orientals serve, 
And I 've felt the glow of red Bordeaux tingling each separate 

nerve ; 
I 've sampled your classic Massic under an arbor green, 
And I 've reeked with song a whole night long over a brown poteen. 

The stalwart brew of the land o' cakes, the schnapps of the fru- 
gal Dutch, 

The much-praised wine of the distant Rhine, and the beer praised 
overmuch, 

The ale of dear old London, and the port of Southern climes, — 

All, ad infin., have I taken in a hundred thousand times. 



108 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

Yet, as I afore-mentioned, these other charms are naught 
Compared with the paramount gorgeousness with which the West 

is fraught; 
For Art and Nature are just the same in the land where the porker 

grows, 
And the paint keeps getting redder the farther out West one goes. 

Our savants have never discovered the reason why this is so, 
And ninety per cent, of the laymen care less than the savants know; 
It answers every purpose that this is manifest: 
The paint keeps getting redder the farther you go out West. 

Give me no home 'neath the pale pink dome of European skies, 
No cot for me by the salmon sea that far to the southward lies; 
But away out West I would build my nest on top of a carmine hill, 
Where I can paint, without restraint, creation redder still! 



THE THREE KINGS OF COLOGNE 

From out Cologne there came three kings 
To worship Jesus Christ, their King. 

To Him they sought fine herbs they brought, 
And many a beauteous golden thing; 

They brought their gifts to Bethlehem town, 

And in that manger set them down. 

Then spake the first king, and he said: 
"O Child, most heavenly, bright, and fair! 

I bring this crown to Bethlehem town 
For Thee, and only Thee, to wear; 

So give a heavenly crown to me 

When I shall come at last to Thee!" 

The second, then. "I bring Thee here 
This royal robe, O Child!" he cried; 

"Of silk 't is spun, and such an one 
There is not in the world beside; 

So in the day of doom requite 

Me with a heavenly robe of white!" 



IPSWICH 109 

The third king gave his gift, and quoth: 
"Spikenard and myrrh to Thee I bring, 

And with these twain would I most fain 
Anoint the body of my King; 

So may their incense sometime rise 

To plead for me in yonder skies!" 

Thus spake the three kings of Cologne, 
That gave their gifts, and went their way; 

And now kneel I in prayer hard by 
The cradle of the Child to-day; 

Nor crown, nor robe, nor spice I bring 

As offering unto Christ, my King. 

Yet have I brought a gift the Child 

May not despise, however small; 
For here I lay my heart to-day, 

And it is full of love to all. 
Take Thou the poor but loyal thing, 
My only tribute, Christ, my King! 



IPSWICH 



In Ipswich nights are cool and fair, 

And the voice that comes from the yonder sea 
Sings to the quaint old mansions there 

Of "the time, the time that used to be"; 
And the quaint old mansions rock and groan, 
And they seem to say in an undertone, 
With half a sigh and with half a moan: 

"It was, but it never again will be." 

In Ipswich witches weave at night 
Their magic spells with impish glee; 

They shriek and laugh in their demon flight 
From the old Main House to the frightened sea. 



110 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

And ghosts of eld come out to weep 
Over the town that is fast asleep; 
And they sob and they wail, as on they creep: 
"It was, but it never again will be." 

In Ipswich riseth Heart-Break Hill 

Over against the calling sea; 
And through the nights so deep and chill 

Watcheth a maiden constantly, — 
Watcheth alone, nor seems to hear 
Over the roar of the waves anear 
The pitiful cry of a far-off year: 

"It was, but it never again will be." 

In Ipswich once a witch I knew, — 
An artless Saxon witch was she; 
By that flaxen hair and those eyes of blue, 

Sweet was the spell she cast on me. 
Alas! but the years have wrought me ill, 
And the heart that is old and battered and chill 
Seeketh again on Heart-Break Hill 
What was, but never again can be. 

Dear Anna, I would not conjure down 
The ghost that cometh to solace me; 

I love to think of old Ipswich town, 

Where somewhat better than friends were we; 

For with every thought of the dear old place 

Cometh again the tender grace 

Of a Saxon witch's pretty face, 

As it was, and is, and ever shall be. 



BILL'S TENOR AND MY BASS 

Bill was short and dapper, while I was thin and tall; 

I had flowin' whiskers, but Bill had none at all; 

Clothes would never seem to set so nice on me as him,- 
Folks used to laugh, and say I was too powerful slim,- 



Ill 

But Bill's clothes fit him like the paper on the wall; 
And we were the sparkin'est beaus in all the place 
When Bill sung tenor and I sung bass. 

Cyrus Baker's oldest girl was member of the choir, — 
Eyes as black as Kelsey's cat, and cheeks as red as fire! 

She had the best sopranner voice I think I ever heard, — 

Sung "Coronation," "Burlington," and "Chiny" like a bird; 
Never done better than with Bill a-standin' nigh 'er, 

A-holdin' of her hymn-book so she would n't lose the place, 

When Bill sung tenor and I sung bass. 

Then there was Prudence Hubbard, so cosey-like and fat, — 

She sung alto, and wore a pee- wee hat; 

Beaued her around one winter, and, first thing I knew, 
One evenin' on the portico I up and called her "Prue"! 

But, sakes alive! she did n't mind a little thing like that; 
On all the works of Providence she set a cheerful face 
When Bill was singin' tenor and I was singin' bass. 

Bill, nevermore we two shall share the fun we used to then, 
Nor know the comfort and the peace we had together when 
We lived in Massachusetts in the good old courtin' days, 
And lifted up our voices in psalms and hymns of praise. 
Oh, how I wisht that I could live them happy times again! 
For life, as we boys knew it, had a sweet, peculiar grace 
When you was singin' tenor and I was singin' bass. 

The music folks have nowadays ain't what it used to be, 
Because there ain't no singers now on earth like Bill and me. 
Why, Lemuel Bangs, who used to go to Springfield twice a year, 
Admitted that for singin' Bill and me had not a peer 
When Bill went soarin' up to A and I dropped down to D! 
The old bull-fiddle Beza Dimmitt played war n't in the race 
'Longside of Bill's high tenor and my sonorious bass. 

Bill moved to Californy in the spring of '54, 

And we folks that used to know him never knew him any more; 
Then Cyrus Baker's oldest girl, she kind o' pined a spell, 
And, hankerin' after sympathy, it naterally befell 



112 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

That she married Deacon Pitkin's boy, who kep' the general store; 
And so the years, the changeful years, have rattled on apace 
Since Bill sung tenor and I sung bass. 

As I was settin' by the stove this evenin' after tea, 
I noticed wife kep' hitchin' close and closer up to me; 

And as she patched the gingham frock our gran'child wore to-day, 

I heerd her gin a sigh that seemed to come from fur away. 
Could n't help inquirin' what the trouble might be; 

"Was thinkin' of the time," says Prue, a-breshin' at her face, 

"When Bill sung tenor and you sung bass." 



THE "ST. JO GAZETTE" 

When I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette," 
I was upon familiar terms with every one I met; 
For "items" were my stock in trade in that my callow time, 
Before the muses tempted me to try my hand at rhyme, — 

Before I found in verses 

Those soothing, gracious mercies, 
Less practical, but much more glorious than a well-filled purse is. 
A votary of Mammon, I hustled round and sweat, 
And helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette." 

The labors of the day began at half-past eight a. m., 
For the farmers came in early, and I had to tackle them; 
And many a noble bit of news I managed to acquire 
By those discreet attentions which all farmer-folk admire, 

With my daily commentary 

On affairs of farm and dairy, 
The tone of which anon with subtle pufferies I 'd vary, — 
Oh, many a peck of apples and of peaches did I get 
When I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette." 

Dramatic news was scarce, but when a minstrel show was due, 
Why, Milton Tootle's opera house was then my rendezvous; 
Judge Grubb would give me points about the latest legal case. 
And Dr. Runcie let me print his sermons when I 'd space; 



THE "ST. JO GAZETTE" 113 

Of fevers, fractures, humors, 

Contusions, fits, and tumors, 
Would Dr. Hall or Dr. Baines confirm or nail the rumors; 
From Colonel Dawes what railroad news there was I used to 

get- 
When I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette." 

For "personals" the old Pacific House was just the place, — 
Pap Abell knew the pedigrees of all the human race; 
And when he 'd gi'n up all he had, he 'd drop a subtle wink, 
And lead the way where one might wet one's whistle with a drink. 

Those drinks at the Pacific, 

When days were sudorific, 
Were what Parisians (pray excuse my French!) would call "mag- 

nifique"; 
And frequently an invitation to a meal I 'd get 
When I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette." 

And when in rainy weather news was scarce as well as slow, 
To Saxton's bank of Hopkins' store for items would I go. 
The jokes which Colonel Saxton told were old, but good enough 
For local application in lieu of better stuff; 

And when the ducks were flying, 

Or the fishing well worth trying — 
Gosh! but those "sports" at Hopkins' store could beat the world 

at lying! 
And I — I printed all their yarns, though not without regret, 
When I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette." 

For squibs political I 'd go to Colonel W T aller Young, 

Or Colonel James N. Burnes, the "statesman with the silver 

tongue " ; 
Should some old pioneer take sick and die, why, then I 'd call 
On Frank M. Posegate for the "life," and Posegate knew 'em all. 

Lon Tullar used to pony 

Up descriptions that were tony 
Of toilets worn at party, ball, or conversazione; 
For the ladies were addicted to the style called "deckolett" 
When I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette." 



114 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

So was I wont my daily round of labor to pursue; 

And when came night I found that there was still more work to do,- 

The telegraph to edit, yards and yards of proof to read, 

And reprint to be gathered to supply the printers' greed. 

Oh, but it takes agility, 

Combined with versatility, 
To run a country daily with appropriate ability! 
There never were a smarter lot of editors, I '11 bet, 
Than we who whooped up local on the "St. Jo Gazette." 

Yes, maybe it was irksome; maybe a discontent 
Rebellious rose amid the toil I daily underwent. 
If so, I don't remember; this only do I know, — 
My thoughts turn ever fondly to that time in old St. Jo. 

The years that speed so fleetly 

Have blotted out completely 
All else than that which still remains to solace me so sweetly; 
The friendships of that time, — ah, me! they are as precious yet 
As when I was a local on the "St. Jo Gazette." 



IN AMSTERDAM 

Meynheer Hans Von Der Bloom has got 

A majazin in Kalverstraat, 

Where one may buy for sordid gold 

Wares quaint and curious, new and old. 

Here are antiquities galore, — 

The jewels which Dutch monarchs wore, 

Swords, teacups, helmets, platters, clocks, 

Bright Dresden jars, dull Holland crocks, 

And all those joys I might rehearse 

That please the eye, but wreck the purse. 

I most admired an ancient bed, 
With ornate carvings at its head, — 
A massive frame of dingy oak, 
Whose curious size and mould bespoke 
Prodigious age. "How much?" I cried. 



IN AMSTERDAM 115 

"Ein tousand gildens," Hans replied; 
And then the honest Dutchman said 
A king once owned that glorious bed, — 
King Fritz der Foorst, of blessed fame, 
Had owned and slept within the same! 

Then long I stood and mutely gazed, 
By reminiscent splendors dazed, 
And I had bought it right away, 
Had Ithe wherewithal to pay. 
But, lacking of the needed pelf, 
I thus discoursed within myself: 
"O happy Holland! where 's the bliss 
That can approximate to this 
Possession of the rare antique 
Which maniacs hanker for and seek? 
My native land is full of stuff 
That 's good, but is not old enough. 
Alas! it has no oaken beds 
Wherein have slumbered royal heads, 
No relic on whose face we see 
The proof of grand antiquity." 

Thus reasoned I a goodly spell 

Until, perchance, my vision fell 

Upon a trademark at the head 

Of Fritz der Foorst's old oaken bed, — 

A rampant wolverine, and round 

This strange device these words I found: 

"Patent Antique. Birkey & Gay, 

Grand Rapids, Michigan, U. S. A." 

At present I 'm not saying much 
About the simpje, guileless Dutch; 
And as it were a loathsome spot 
I keep away from Kalverstraat, 
Determined when I want a bed 
In which hath slept a royal head 
I '11 patronize no middleman, 
But deal direct with Michigan. 



116 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 



TO THE PASSING SAINT 



As to-night you came your way, 
Bearing earthward heavenly joy, 

Tell me, O dear saint, I pray, 
Did you see my little boy? 

By some fairer voice beguiled, 

Once he wandered from my sight; 

He is such a little child, 

He should have my love this night. 

It has been so many a year, — 
Oh, so many a year since then! 

Yet he was so very dear, 
Surely he will come again. 

If upon your way you see 
One whose beauty is divine, 

Will you send him back to me? 
He is lost, and he is mine. 



Tell him that his little chair 

Nestles where the sunbeams meet, 

That the shoes he used to wear 
Yearn to kiss his dimpled feet. 

Tell him of each pretty toy 

That was wont to share his glee; 

Maybe that will bring my boy 
Back to them and back to me. 



O dear saint, as on you go 

Through the glad and sparkling frost, 
Bid those bells ring high and low 

For a little child that 's lost! 



THE FISHERMAN'S FEAST 117 

O dear saint, that blessest men 

With the grace of Christmas joy, 
Soothe this heart with love again, — 

Give me back my little boy! 



THE FISHERMAN'S FEAST 

Of all the gracious gifts of Spring, 

Is there another can surpass 
This delicate, voluptuous thing, — 

This dapple-green, plump-shouldered bass? 
Upon a damask napkin laid, 

What exhalations superfine 
Our gustatory nerves pervade, 

Provoking quenchless thirsts for wine! 

The ancients loved this noble fish; 

And, coming from the kitchen fire 
All piping hot upon a dish, 

What raptures did he not inspire? 
"Fish should swim twice," they used to say, — 

Once in their native, vapid brine, 
And then again, a better way — 

You understand; fetch on the wine! 

Ah, dainty monarch of the flood, 

How often have I cast for you, 
How often sadly seen you scud 

Where weeds and water-lilies grew! 
How often have you filched my bait, 

How often snapped my treacherous line! 
Yet here I have you on this plate, — 

You shall swim twice, and now in wine. 

And harkee, garcon! let the blood 

Of cobwebbed years be spilled for him, — 

Ay, in a rich Burgundian flood 

This piscatorial pride should swim; 



118 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

So, were he living, he would say 
He gladly died for me and mine, 

And, as it were his native spray, 

He 'd lash the sauce — what, ho! the wine! 

I would it were ordained for me 

To share your fate, O finny friend! 
I surely were not loath to be 

Reserved for such a noble end; 
For when old Chronos, gaunt and grim, 

At last reels in his ruthless line, 
What were my ecstasy to swim 

In wine, in wine, in glorious wine! 

Well, here 's a health to you, sweet Spring! 

And, prithee, whilst I stick to earth, 
Come hither every year and bring 

The boons provocative of mirth; 
And should your stock of bass run low, 

However much I might repine, 
I think I might survive the blow, 

If plied with wine and still more wine! 



THE ONION TART 

Of tarts there be a thousand kinds, 

So versatile the art, 
And, as we all have different minds, 

Each has his favorite tart; 
But those which most delight the rest 

Methinks should suit me not: 
The onion tart doth please me best, — 

Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott! 

Where but in Deutschland can be found 

This boon of which I sing? 
Who but a Teuton could compound 

This sui generis thing? 



THE ONION TART 119 

None with the German frau can vie 

In arts cuisine, I wot, 
Whose summum bonum breeds the sigh, 

"Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott!" 

You slice the fruit upon the dough, 

And season to the taste, 
Then in an oven (not too slow) 

The viand should be placed; 
And when 't is done, upon a plate 

You serve it piping hot, 
Your nostrils and your eyes dilate,— 

Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott! 

It sweeps upon the sight and smell 

In overwhelming tide, 
And then the sense of taste as well 

Betimes is gratified: 
Three noble senses drowned in bliss! 

I prithee tell me, what 
Is there beside compares with this? 

Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott! 

For if the fruit be proper young, 

And if the crust be good, 
How shall they melt upon the tongue 

Into a savory flood! 
How seek the Mecca down below, 

And linger round that spot, 
Entailing weeks and months of woe, — 

Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott! 

If Nature gives men appetites 

For things that won't digest, 
Why, let them eat whatso delights, 

And let her stand the rest; 
And though the sin involve the cost 

Of Carlsbad, like as not 
'T is better to have loved and lost, — 

Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott! 



120 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

Beyond the vast, the billowy tide, 

Where my compatriots dwell, 
All kinds of victuals have I tried, 

All kinds of drinks, as well; 
But nothing known to Yankee art 

Appears to reach the spot 
Like this Teutonic onion tart, — 

Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott! 

So, though I quaff of Carlsbad's tide 

As full as I can hold, 
And for complete reform inside 

Plank down my hoard of gold, 
Remorse shall not consume my heart, 

Nor sorrow vex my lot, 
For I have eaten onion tart, — 

Ach, Gott! mein lieber Gott! 



GRANDMA'S BOMBAZINE 

It 's everywhere that women fair invite and please my eye, 
And that on dress I lay much stress I can't and sha' n't deny: 
The English dame who 's all aflame with divers colors bright, 
The Teuton belle, the ma'moiselle, — all give me keen delight; 
And yet I '11 say, go where I may, I never yet have seen 
A dress that 's quite as grand a sight as was that bombazine. 

Now, you must know 't was years ago this quaint but noble gown 

Flashed in one day, the usual way, upon our solemn town. 

'T was Fisk who sold for sordid gold that gravely scrumptious 

thing, — 
Jim Fisk, the man who drove a span that would have joyed a 

king, — 
And grandma's eye fell with a sigh upon that sombre sheen, 
And grandpa's purse looked much the worse for grandma's bom- 
bazine. 



grandma's bombazine 121 

Though ten years old, I never told the neighbors of the gown; 
For grandma said, "This secret, Xed, must not be breathed in 

town." 
The sitting-room for days of gloom was in a dreadful mess 
When that quaint dame, Miss Kelsey, came to make the wondrous 

dress : 
To fit and baste and stitch a waist, with whalebones in between, 
Is precious slow, as all folks know who 've made a bombazine. 

With fortitude dear grandma stood the trial to the end 
(The nerve we find in womankind I cannot comprehend !) ; 
And when 't was done, resolved that none should guess at the 
surprise, ' 

Within the press she hid that dress, secure from prying eyes; 
For grandma knew a thing or two, — by which remark I mean 
That Sundays were the days for her to wear that bombazine. 

I need not state she got there late; and, sailing up the aisle 
With regal grace, on grandma's face reposed a conscious smile. 
It fitted so, above, below, and hung so well all round, 
That there was not one faulty spot a critic could have found. 
How proud I was of her, because she looked so like a queen! 
And that was why, perhaps, that I admired the bombazine. 

But there were those, as you 'd suppose, who scorned that per- 
fect gown; 
For ugly-grained old cats obtained in that Xew England town: 
The Widow White spat out her spite in one: "It does n't fit!" 
The Packard girls (they wore false curls) all giggled like to split; 
Sophronia Wade, the sour old maid, she turned a bilious green, 
When she descried that joy and pride, my grandma's bomba- 
zine. 

But grandma knew, and I did too, that gown was wondrous fine, — 
The envious sneers and jaundiced jeers were a conclusive sign. 
Why, grandpa said it went ahead of all the girls in town, 
And, saying this, he snatched a kiss that like to burst that gown; 
But, blushing red, my grandma said, "Oh, is n't grandpa mean!" 
Yet evermore my grandma wore his favorite bombazine. 



122 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

And, when she died that sombre pride passed down to heedless 

heirs, — 
Alas, the day 't was hung away beneath the kitchen stairs! 
Thence in due time, with dust and grime, came foes on foot and 

wing, 
And made their nests and sped their guests in that once beauteous 

thing. 
'T is so, forsooth! Time 's envious tooth corrodes each human scene; 
And so, at last, to ruin passed my grandma's bombazine. 

Yet to this day, I 'm proud to say, it plays a grateful part, — 
The thoughts it brings are of such things as touch and warm my 

heart. 
This gown, my dear, you show me here I '11 own is passing fair, 
Though I '11 confess it 's no such dress as grandma used to wear. 
Yet wear it, do; perchance when you and I are off the scene, 
Our boy shall sing this comely thing as / the bombazine. 



RARE ROAST BEEF 

When the numerous distempers to which all flesh is heir 

Torment us till our very souls are reeking with despair; 

When that monster fiend, Dyspepsy, rears its spectral hydra head, 

Filling bon vivants and epicures with certain nameless dread; 

When any ill of body or of intellect abounds, 

Be it sickness known to Galen or disease unknown to Lowndes, — 

In such a dire emergency it is my firm belief 

That there is no diet quite so good as rare roast beef. 

And even when the body 's in the very prime of health, 
When sweet contentment spreads upon the cheeks her rosy wealth, 
And when a man devours three meals per day and pines for more, 
And growls because instead of three square meals there are not 

four, — 
Well, even then, though cake and pie do service on the side, 
And coffee is a luxury that may not be denied, 
Still of the many viands there is one that 's hailed as chief, 
And that, as you are well aware, is rare roast beef. 



RARE ROAST BEEF 123 

Some like the sirloin, but I think the porterhouse is best, — 
'T is juicier and tenderer and meatier than the rest; 
Put on this roast a dash of salt, and then of water pour 
Into the sizzling dripping-pan a cupful, and no more; 
The oven being hot, the roast will cook in half an hour; 
Then to the juices in the pan you add a little flour, 
And so you get a gravy that is called the cap sheaf 
Of that glorious summum bonum, rare roast beef. 

Served on a platter that is hot, and carved with thin, keen knife, 

How does this savory viand enhance the worth of life! 

Give me no thin and shadowy slice, but a thick and steaming slab, — 

Who would not choose a generous hunk to a bloodless little dab? 

Upon a nice hot plate how does the juicy morceau steam, 

A symphony in scarlet or a red incarnate dream! 

Take from me eyes and ears and all, O Time, thou ruthless thief! 

Except these teeth werewith to deal with rare roast beef. 

Most every kind and role of modern victuals have I tried, 
Including roasted, fricasseed, broiled, toasted, stewed, and fried, 
Your canvasbacks and papa-bottes and mutton-chops subese, 
Your patties a la Turkey and your doughnuts a la grease; 
I 've whiled away dyspeptic hours with crabs in marble halls, 
And in the lowly cottage I 've experienced codfish balls; 
But I 've never found a viand that could so allay all grief 
And soothe the cockles of the heart as rare roast beef. 

I honor that sagacious king who, in a grateful mood, 
Knighted the savory loin that on the royal table stood; 
And as for me I 'd ask no better friend than this good roast, 
Which is my squeamish stomach's fortress (jeste Burg) and host; 
For with this ally with me I can mock Dyspepsy's wrath, 
Can I pursue the joy of Wisdom's pleasant, peaceful path. 
So I do off my vest and let my waistband out a reef 
When I soever set me down to rare roast beef. 



124 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 



OLD TIMES, OLD FRIENDS, OLD LOVE 

There are no days like the good old days, — 

The days when we were youthful! 
When humankind were pure of mind, 

And speech and deeds were truthful; 
Before a love for sordid gold 

Became man's ruling passion, 
And before each dame and maid became 

Slave to the tyrant fashion! 

There are no girls like the good old girls, — 

Against the world I 'd stake 'em ! 
As buxom and smart and clean of heart 

As the Lord knew how to make 'em! 
They were rich in spirit and common-sense, 

And piety all supporting 
They could bake and brew, and had taught school, too, 

And they made such likely courtinM 

There are no boys like the good old boys, — 

When we were boys together! 
When the grass was sweet to the brown bare feet 

That dimpled the laughing heather; 
When the pewee sung to the summer dawn 

Of the bee in the billowy clover, 
Or down by the mill the whip-poor-will 

Echoed his night song over. 

There is no love like the good old love, — 

The love that mother gave us! 
We are old, old men, yet we pine again 

For that precious grace, — God save us! 
So we dream and dream of the good old times, 

And our hearts grow tenderer, fonder, 
As those dear old dreams bring soothing gleams 

Of heaven away off yonder. 



MR. BILLINGS OF LOUISVILLE 125 



MR. BILLINGS OF LOUISVILLE 

There are times in one's life which one cannot forget; 

And the time I remember 's the evening I met 

A haughty young scion of bluegrass renown 

Who made my acquaintance while painting the town: 

A handshake, a cocktail, a smoker, and then 

Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten. 

There flowed in his veins the blue blood of the South, 

And a cynical smile curled his sensuous mouth; 

He quoted from Lanier and Poe by the yard, 

But his purse had been hit by the war, and hit hard: 

I felt that he honored and flattered me when 

Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten. 

I wonder that never again since that night 
A vision of Billings has hallowed my sight; 
I pine for the sound of his voice and the thrill 
That comes with the touch of a ten-dollar bill: 
I wonder and pine; for — I say it again — 
Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten. 

I 've heard what old Whittier sung of Miss Maud; 
But all such philosophy 's nothing but fraud; 
To one who 's a bear in Chicago to-day, 
With wheat going up, and the devil to pay, 
These words are the saddest of tongue or of pen: 
"Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten." 



POET AXD KING 

Though I am king, I have no throne 
Save this rough wooden siege alone; 
I have no empire, yet my sway 
Extends a myriad leagues away; 



126 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

No servile vassal bends his knee 
In grovelling reverence to me, 
Yet at my word all hearts beat high, 
And there is fire in every eye, 
And love and gratitude they bring 
As tribute unto me, a king. 

The folk that throng the busy street 
Know not it is a king they meet; 
And I am glad there is not seen 
The monarch in my face and mien. 
I should not choose to be the cause 
Of fawning or of coarse applause: 
I am content to know the arts 
Wherewith to lord it o'er their hearts; 
For when unto their hearts I sing, 
I am a king, I am a king! 

My sceptre, — see, it is a pen! 
Wherewith I rule these hearts of men. 
Sometime it pleaseth to beguile 
Its monarch fancy with a smile; 
Sometime it is athirst for tears: 
And so adown the laurelled years 
I walk, the noblest lord on earth, 
Dispensing sympathy and mirth. 
Aha! it is a magic thing 
That makes me what I am, — a king! 

Let empires crumble as they may, 
Proudly I hold imperial sway; 
The sunshine and the rain of years 
Are human smiles and human tears 
That come or vanish at my call, — 
I am the monarch of them all! 
Mindful alone of this am I: 
The songs I sing shall never die; 
Not even envious Death can wring 
His glory from so great a king. 



LIZZIE 127 

Come, brother, be a king with me, 
And rule mankind eternally; 
Lift up the weak, and cheer the strong, 
Defend the truth, combat the wrong! 
You'll find no sceptre like the pen 
To hold and sway the hearts of men; 
Its edicts flow in blood and tears 
That will outwash the flood of years: 
So, brother, sing your songs, oh, sing! 
And be with me a king, a king! 



LIZZIE 



I woxder ef all wimmin air 

Like Lizzie is when we go out 
To theatres an' concerts where 

Is things the papers talk about. 
Do other wimmin fret an' stew 

Like they wuz bein' crucified, — 
Frettin' a show or concert through, 

"With wonderin' ef the baby cried ? 

Now Lizzie knows that gran'ma 's there 

To see that everything is right; 
Yet Lizzie thinks that gran'ma 's care 

Ain't good enuff f'r baby, quite. 
Yet what am I to answer when 

She kind uv fidgets at my side, 
An' asks me every now an' then, 

"I wonder ef the baby cried?" 

Seems like she seen two little eyes 
A-pinin' f'r their mother's smile; 

Seems like she heern the pleadin' cries 
Uv one she thinks uv all the while; 

An' so she 's sorry that she come. 
An' though she alius tries to hide 



128 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

The truth, she 'd ruther stay to hum 
Than wonder ef the baby cried. 

Yes, wimmin folks is all alike — 

By Lizzie you kin jedge the rest; 
There never wuz a little tyke, 

But that his mother loved him best. 
And nex' to bein' what I be — 

The husband uv my gentle bride — 
I 'd wisht I wuz that croodlin' wee, 

With Lizzie wonderin' ef I cried. 



ALWAYS RIGHT 

Don't take on so, Hiram, 

But do what you're told to do; 
It 's fair to suppose that yer mother knows 

A heap sight more than you. 
I '11 allow that sometimes her way 

Don't seem the wisest, quite; 
But the easiest way, 
When she 's had her say, 

Is to reckon yer mother is right. 

Courted her ten long winters, 

Saw her to singin'-school; 
When she went down one spell to town, 

I cried like a durned ol' fool; 
Got mad at the boys for callin' 

When I sparked her Sunday night: 
But she said she knew 
A thing or two, — 

An' I reckoned yer mother wuz right. 

I courted till I wuz aging, 

And she wuz past her prime, — 
I 'd have died, I guess, if she had n't said yes 

When I popped f r the hundredth time. 



PROVIDENCE AND THE DOG 129 

Said she 'd never have took me 

If I had n't stuck so tight; 
Opined that we 
Could never agree, — 

And I reckon yer mother wuz right! 



PROVIDENCE AND THE DOG 

When I was young and callow, which was many years ago, 

Within me the afflatus went surging to and fro; 

And so I wrote a tragedy that fairly reeked with gore, 

With every act concluding with the dead piled on the floor, — 

A mighty effort, by the gods! and after I had read 

The manuscript to Daly, that dramatic censor said: 

"The plot is most exciting, and I like the dialogue; 

You should take the thing to Providence, and try it on a dog." 

McCambridge organized a troupe, including many a name 

Unknown alike to guileless me, to riches, and to fame. 

A pompous man whose name was Rae was Nestor of this troupe,— 

Amphibious, he was quite at home outside or in the soup! 

The way McCambridge billed him! Why, such dreams in red 

and green 
Had ne'er before upon the boards of Yankeedom been seen; 
And my proud name was heralded, — oh, that I'd gone incog., 
When we took that play to Providence to try it on a dog! 

Shall I forget the awful day we struck that wretched town ? 
Yet in what melting irony the treacherous sun beamed down! 
The sale of seats had not been large; but then McCambridge 

said 
The factory people seldom bought their seats so far ahead, 
And Rae indorsed McCambridge. So they partly set at rest 
The natural misgivings that perturbed my youthful breast; 
For I wondered and lamented that the town was not agog 
When I took my play to Providence to try it on a dog. 



130 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

They never came at all, — aha! I knew it i ll the time, — 

They never came to see and hear my tragedy sublime. 

Oh, fateful moment when the curtain rose on act the first! 

Oh, moment fateful to the soul for wealth and fame athirst! 

But lucky factory girls and boys to stay away that night, 

When the author's fervid soul was touched by disappointment's 

blight,— 
When desolation settled down on me like some dense fog 
For having tempted Providence, and tried it on a dog! 

Those actors did n't know their parts; they maundered to and fro, 

Ejaculating platitudes that were quite mal a propos; 

And when I sought to reprimand the graceless scamps, the lot 

Turned fiercely on me, and denounced my charming play as rot. 

I might have stood their bitter taunts without a passing grunt, 

If I 'd had a word of solace from the people out in front; 

But that chilly corporal's guard sat round like bumps upon a log 

When I played that play at Providence with designs upon the dog. 

We went with lots of baggage, but we did n't bring it back, — 
For who would be so hampered as he walks a railway track? 
"Oh, ruthless muse of tragedy! what prodigies of shame, 
What marvels of injustice are committed in thy name!" 
Thus groaned I in the spirit, as I strode what stretch of ties 
'Twixt Providence, Rhode Island, and my native Gotham lies; 
But Rae, McCambridge, and the rest kept up a steady jog, — 
T' was not the first time they had plied their arts upon the dog. 

So much for my first battle with the fickle goddess, Fame, — 
And I hear that some folks nowadays are faring just the same. 
Oh, hapless he that on the graceless Yankee dog relies! 
The dog fares stout and hearty, and the play it is that dies. 
So ye with tragedies to try, I beg of you, beware ! 
Put not your trust in Providence, that most delusive snare; 
Cast, if you will, your pearls of thought before the Western hog, 
But never go to Providence to try it on a dog. 



gettin' on 131 

GETTIN' ON 

When I wuz somewhat younger, 

I wuz reckoned purty gay; 
I had my fling at everything 

In a rollicking coltish way. 
But times have strangely altered 

Since sixty years ago — 
This age of steam an' things don't seem 

Like the age I used to know. 
Your modern innovations 

Don't suit me, I confess, 
As did the ways of the good ol' days, — 

But I 'm gettin' on, I guess. 

I set on the piazza, 

An' hitch round with the sun; 
Sometimes, mayhap, I take a nap, 

Waitin' till school is done. 
An' then I tell the children 

The things I done in youth, — 
An' near as I can, as a vener'ble man, 

I stick to the honest truth, — 
But the looks of them 'at listen 

Seem sometimes to express 
The remote idee that I 'm gone — you see ? — 

An' I am gettin' on, I guess. 

I get up in the mornin', 

An', nothin' else to do, 
Before the rest are up an' dressed, 

I read the papers through. 
I hang round with the women 

All day an' hear 'em talk; 
An' while they sew or knit I show 

The baby how to walk. 
An', somehow, I feel sorry 

When they put away his dress 
An' cut his curls ('cause they 're like a girl's!) — 

I 'm gettin' on, I guess. 



132 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

Sometimes, with twilight round me, 

I see, or seem to see, 
A distant shore where friends of yore 

Linger an' watch for me. 
Sometimes I 've heered 'em callin' 

So tender-like 'nd low 
That it almost seemed like a dream I dreamed, 

Or an echo of long ago; 
An' sometimes on my forehead 

There falls a soft caress, 
Or the touch of a hand, — you understand, — 

I 'm gettin' on, I guess. 



THE SCHNELLEST ZUG 

From Hano ..er to Leipzig is but a little way, 
Yet the journey by the so-called schnellest zug consumes a day; 
You start at half-past ten or so, and not till nearly night 
Do the double towers of Magdeburg loom up before your sight; 
From thence to Leipzig's quick enough, — of that I '11 not com- 
plain, — 
But from Hanover to Magdeburg — confound that schnellest train! 

The Germans say, that "schnell" means fast, and " schnellest" 

faster yet, — 
In all my life no grimmer bit of humor have I met! 
Why, thirteen miles an hour 's the greatest speed they ever go, 
While on the engine piston-rods do moss and lichens grow; 
And yet the average Teuton will presumptuously maintain 
That one can't know what swiftness is till he 's tried das schnel- 
lest train! 

Fool that I was! I should have walked, — I had no time to waste; 

The little journey I had planned I had to do in haste, — 

The quaint old town of Leipzig with its literary mart, 

And Dresden with its crockery-shops and wondrous wealth of art, 

The Saxon Alps, the Carlsbad cure for all dyspeptic pain, — 

These were the ends I had in view when I took that schnellest train. 



THE SCHNELLEST ZUG 133 

The natives dozed around me, yet none too deep to hear 

The guard's sporadic shout of "funf minuten" (meaning beer); 

I counted forty times at least that voice announce the stops 

Required of those fat natives to glut their greed for hops, 

Whilst I crouched in a corner, a monument to woe, 

And thought unholy, awful things, and felt my whiskers grow! 

And then, the wretched sights one sees while travelling by that 

train, — 
The women doing men-folks' work at harvesting the grain, 
Or sometimes grubbing in the soil, or hitched to heavy carts 
Beside the family cow or dog, doing their slavish parts! 
The husbands strut in soldier garb, — indeed they were too vain 
To let creation see them work from that creeping schnellest train! 

I found the German language all too feeble to convey 

The sentiments that surged through my dyspeptic hulk that day; 

I had recourse to English, and exploded without stint 

Such virile Anglo-Saxon as would never do in print, 

But which assuaged my rising gorge and cooled my seething brain 

While snailing on to Magdeburg upon that schnellest train. 

The typical New England freight that maunders to and fro, 

The upper Mississippi boats, the bumptious B. & O., 

The creeping Southern railroads with their other creeping things, 

The Philadelphy cable that is run out West for rings, 

The Piccadilly 'buses with their constant roll and shake, — 

All have I tried, and yet I 'd give the "schnellest zug" the cake! 

My countrymen, if ever you should seek the German clime, 
Put not your trust in Baedeker if you are pressed for time; 
From Hanover to Magdeburg is many a weary mile 
By "schnellest zug," but done afoot it seems a tiny while; 
Walk, swim, or skate, and then the task will not appear in vain, 
But you '11 break the third commandment if you take the schnell- 
est train! 



134 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 



BETHLEHEM-TOWN 



As I was going to Bethlehem-town, 

Upon the earth I cast me down 

All underneath a little tree 

That whispered in this wise to me: 

"Oh, I shall stand on Calvary 

And bear what burthen saveth thee!" 

As up I fared to Bethlehem-town, 

I met a shepherd coming down, 

And thus he quoth: "A wondrous sight 

Hath spread before mine eyes this night, — 

An angel host most fair to see, 

That sung full sweetly of a tree 

That shall uplift on Calvary 

What burthen saveth you and me!" 

And as I gat to Bethlehem-town, 

Lo! wise men came that bore a crown. 

"Is there," cried I, "in Bethlehem 

A King shall wear this diadem?" 

"Good sooth," they quoth, "and it is He 

That shall be lifted on the tree 

And freely shed on Calvary 

What blood redeemeth us and thee!" 

Unto a Child in Bethlehem-town 
The wise men came and brought the crown; 
And while the infant smiling slept, 
Upon their knees they fell and wept; 
But, with her babe upon her knee, 
Naught recked that Mother of the tree, 
That should uplift on Calvary 
What burthen saveth all and me. 

Again I walk in Bethlehem-town 

And think on Him that wears the crown, 

I may not kiss His feet again, 






THE DOINGS OF DELSARTE 135 

Nor worship Him as did I then; 
My King hath died upon the tree, 
And hath outpoured on Calvary 
What blood redeemeth you and me! 



THE DOINGS OF DELSARTE 

In former times my numerous rhymes excited general mirth, 
And I was then of all good men the merriest man on earth; 
And my career 
From year to year 
Was full of cheer 
And things, 
Despite a few regrets, perdieu! which grim dyspepsia brings; 
But now how strange and harsh a change has come upon the 



scene 



Horrors appall the life where all was formerly so serene: 
Yes, wasting care hath cast its snare about my honest heart, 
Because, alas! it hath come to pass my daughter 's learned Delsarte. 

In flesh and joint and every point the counterpart of me, 
She grew so fast she grew at last a marvellous thing to see, — 
Long, gaunt, and slim, each gangling limb played stumbling- 
block to t' other, 
The which excess of awkwardness quite mortified her mother. 
Now, as for me, I like to see the carriages uncouth 
Which certify to all the shy, unconscious age of youth. 
If maidenkind be pure of mind, industrious, tidy, smart, 
What need that they should fool away their youth upon Delsarte ? 

In good old times my numerous rhymes occasioned general mirth, 
But now you see 

Revealed in me 

The gloomiest bard on earth. 
I sing no more of the joys of yore that marked my happy life, 
But rather those depressing woes with which the present 's rife. 



136 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

Unreconciled to that gaunt child, who 's now a fashion-plate, 
One song I raise in Art's dispraise, and so do I fight with Fate: 
This gangling bard has found it hard to see his counterpart 
Long, loose, and slim, divorced from him by that hectic dude, 
Delsarte. 

Where'er she goes, 
She loves to pose, 
In classic attitudes, 
And droop her eyes in languid wise, and feign abstracted moods; 
And she, my child, 
Who all so wild, 
So helpless and so sweet, 
That once she knew not what to do with those great big hands 

and feet, 
Now comes and goes with such repose, so calmly sits or stands, 
Is so discreet with both her feet, so deft with both her hands. 
Why, when I see that satire on me, I give an angry start, 
And I utter one word — it is commonly heard — derogatory to 
Delsarte. 

In years gone by 't was said that I was quite a scrumptious man; 
Conceit galore had I before this Delsarte craze began; 
But now these wise 

Folks criticise 

My figure and my face, 
And I opine they even incline to sneer at my musical bass. 
Why, sometimes they presume to say this wart upon my cheek 
Is not refined, and remarks unkind they pass on that antique. 
With lusty bass and charms of face and figure will I part 
Ere they extort this grand old wart to placate their Delsarte. 

Oh, wretched day! as all shall say who 've known my Muse be- 
fore, 
When by this rhyme you see that I 'm not in it any more. 
Good-by the mirth that over earth diffused such keen delight; 
The old-time bard 

Of pork and lard 

Is plainly out of sight. 



THE SINGING IN GOD'S ACRE 137 

All withered now about his brow the laurel fillets droop, 
While Lachesis brews 

For the poor old Muse 

A portion of scalding soup. 
Engrave this line, O friends of mine! over my broken heart: 
"He hustled and strove, and fancied he throve, till his daughter 
learned Delsarte." 



THE SINGING IN GOD'S ACRE 

Out yonder in the moonlight, wherein God's Acre lies, 

Go angels walking to and fro, singing their lullabies. 

Their radiant wings are folded, and their eyes are bended low, 

As they sing among the beds whereon the flowers delight to grow, — 

"Sleep, oh, sleep! 

The Shepherd guardeth His sheep. 
Fast speedeth the night away, 
Soon cometh the glorious day; 
Sleep, weary ones, while ye may, 

Sleep, oh, sleep!" 

The flowers within God's Acre see that fair and wondrous sight, 
And hear the angels singing to the sleepers through the night; 
And, lo! throughout the hours of day those gentle flowers prolong 
The music of the angels in that tender slumber-song, — 

"Sleep, oh, sleep! 

The Shepherd loveth His sheep. 
He that guardeth His flock the best 
Hath folded them to His loving breast; 
So sleep ye now, and take your rest, — 

Sleep, oh, sleep!" 

From angel and from flower the years have learned that soothing 

song, 
And with its heavenly music speed the days and nights along; 
So through all time, whose flight the Shepherd's vigils glorify, 
God's Acre slumbereth in the grace of that sweet lullaby, — 



138 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

"Sleep, oh, sleep! 

The Shepherd loveth His sheep. 
Fast speedeth the night away, 
Soon cometh the glorious day; 
Sleep, weary ones, while ye may, — 

Sleep, oh, sleep!" 



THE DREAM-SHIP 

When the world is fast asleep, 

Along the midnight skies — 
As though it were a wandering cloud — 

The ghostly dream-ship flies. 

An angel stands at the dream-ship's helm, 

An angel stands at the prow, 
And an angel stands at the dream-ship's side 

With a rue-wreath on her brow. 

The other angels, silver-crowned, 

Pilot and helmsman are, 
And the angel with the wreath of rue 

Tosseth the dreams afar. 

The dreams they fall on rich and poor; 

They fall on young and old; 
And some are dreams of poverty, 

And some are dreams of gold. 

And some are dreams that thrill with joy, 

And some that melt to tears; 
Some are dreams of the dawn of love, 

And some of the old dead years. 

On rich and poor alike they fall, 

Alike on young and old, 
Bringing to slumbering earth their joys 

And sorrows manifold. 



BALLAD OF WOMEN I LOVE 139 

The friendless youth in them shall do 

The deeds of mighty men, 
And drooping age shall feel the grace 

Of buoyant youth again. 

The king shall be a beggarman — 

The pauper be a king — 
In that revenge or recompense 

The dream-ship dreams do bring. 

So ever downward float the dreams 

That are for all and me, 
And there is never mortal man 

Can solve that mystery. 

But ever onward in its course 

Along the haunted skies — 
As though it were a cloud astray — 

The ghostly dream-ship flies. 

Two angels with their silver crowns 

Pilot and helmsman are, 
And an angel with a wreath of rue 

Tosseth the dreams afar. 



BALLAD OF WOMEN I LOVE 

Prudence Mears hath an old blue plate 

Hid away in an oaken chest, 
And a Franklin platter of ancient date 

Beareth Amandy Baker's crest; 
What times soever I 've been their guest, 

Says I to myself in an undertone: 
"Of womenfolk, it must be confessed, 

These do I love, and these alone." 

Well, again, in the Nutmeg State, 
Dorothy Pratt is richly blest 



140 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

With a relic of art and a land effete — 
A pitcher of glass that 's cut, not pressed. 

And a Washington teapot is possessed 
Down in Pelham by Marthy Stone — 

Think ye now that I say in jest 

" These do I love, and these alone?" 

Were Hepsy Higgins inclined to mate, 

Or Dorcas Eastman prone to invest 
In Cupid's bonds, they could find their fate 

In the bootless bard of Crockery Quest. 
For they 've heaps of trumpery — so have the rest 

Of those spinsters whose ware I 'd like to own; 
You can see why I say with such certain zest, 

"These do I love, and these alone." 

ENVOY 

Prince, show me the quickest way and best 
To gain the subject of my moan; 

We 've neither spinsters nor relics out West — 
These do I love, and these alone. 



SUPPOSE 



Suppose, my dear, that you were I 

And by your side your sweetheart sate; 

Suppose you noticed by and by 

The distance 'twixt you were too great; 

Now tell me, dear, what would you do ? 
I know — and so do you. 

And when (so comfortably placed) 
Suppose you only grew aware 

That that dear, dainty little waist 
Of hers looked very lonely there; 

Pray tell me sooth — what would you do? 
I know, and so do you. 



MYSTERIOUS DOINGS 141 

When, having done what I just did 

With not a frown to check or chill, 
Suppose her red lips seemed to bid 

Defiance to your lordly will; 
Oh, tell me, sweet, what would you do? 

I know, and so do you. 



MYSTERIOUS DOINGS 

As once I rambled in the woods 

I chanced to spy amid the brake 
A huntsman ride his way beside 

A fair and passing tranquil lake; 
Though velvet bucks sped here and there, 

He let them scamper through the green- 
Not one smote he, but lustily 

He blew his horn — what could it mean? 

As on I strolled beside that lake, 

A pretty maid I chanced to see 
Fishing away for finny prey, 

Yet not a single one caught she; 
All round her boat the fishes leapt 

And gambolled to their hearts' content, 
Yet never a thing did the maid but sing — 

I wonder what on earth it meant. 

As later yet I roamed my way, 

A lovely steed neighed loud and long, 
And an empty boat sped all afloat 

Where sang a fishermaid her song; 
All underneath the prudent shade, 

Which yonder kindly willows threw, 
Together strayed a youth and maid — 

I can't explain it all, can you? 



142 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 



WITH TWO SPOONS FOR TWO SPOONS 

How trifling shall these gifts appear 

Among the splendid many 
That loving friends now send to cheer 

Harvey and Ellen Jenney. 

And yet these baubles symbolize 

A certain fond relation 
That well beseems, as I surmise, 

This festive celebration. 

Sweet friends of mine, be spoons once more, 

And with your tender cooing 
Renew the keen delights of yore — 

The rapturous bliss of wooing. 

What though that silver in your hair 

Tells of the years aflying? 
'T is yours to mock at Time and Care 

With love that is undying. 

In memory of this Day, dear friends, 

Accept the modest token 
From one who with the bauble sends 

A love that can't be spoken. 



MARY SMITH 

Away down East where I was reared amongst my Yankee kith, 

There used to live a pretty girl whose name was Mary Smith; 

And though it 's many years since last I saw that pretty girl, 

And though I feel I 'm sadly worn by Western strife and whirl; 

Still, oftentimes, I think about the old familiar place, 

Which, someway, seemed the brighter for Miss Mary's pretty face, 

And in my heart I feel once more revivified the glow 

I used to feel in those old times when I was Mary's beau. 



MARY SMITH 143 

I saw her home from singing school — she warbled like a bird. 
A sweeter voice than hers for song or speech I never heard. 
She was soprano in the choir, and I a solemn bass, 
And when we unisoned our voices filled that holy place; 
The tenor and the alto never had the slightest chance, 
For Mary's upper register made every heartstring dance; 
And, as for me, I shall not brag, and yet I 'd have you know 
I sung a very likely bass when I was Mary's beau. 

On Friday nights I 'd drop around to make my weekly call, 
And though I came to visit her, I 'd have to see 'em all. 
With Mary's mother sitting here and Mary's father there, 
The conversation never flagged so far as I 'm aware; 
Sometimes I'd hold her worsted, sometimes we 'd play at games, 
Sometimes dissect the apples which we 'd named each other's 

names. 
Oh how I loathed the shrill-toned clock that told me when to go — 
'T was ten o'clock at half-past eight when I was Mary's beau. 

Now there was Luther Baker — because he'd come of age 

And thought himself some pumpkins because he drove the stage — 

He fancied he could cut me out; but Mary was my friend — 

Elsewise I 'm sure the issue had had a tragic end. 

For Luther Baker was a man I never could abide, 

And, when it came to Mary, either he or I had died. 

I merely cite this instance incidentally to show 

That I was quite in earnest when I was Mary's beau. 

How often now those sights, those pleasant sights, recur again: 
The little township that was all the world I knew of then — 
The meeting-house upon the hill, the tavern just beyond, 
Old deacon Packard's general store, the sawmill by the pond, 
The village elms I vainly sought to conquer in my quest 
Of that surpassing trophy, the golden oriole's nest. 
And, last of all those visions that come back from long ago, 
The pretty face that thrilled my soul when I was Mary's beau. 

Hush, gentle wife, there is no need a pang should vex your heart — 
'T is many years since fate ordained that she and I should part; 
To each a true, maturer love came in good time, and yet 



144 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

It brought not with its nobler grace the power to forget. 

And would you fain begrudge me now the sentimental joy 

That comes of recollections of my sparkings when a boy? 

I warrant me that, were your heart put to the rack, 't would show 

That it had predilections when I was Mary's beau. 

And, Mary, should these lines of mine seek out your biding place, 
God grant they bring the old sweet smile back to your pretty face — 
God grant they bring you thoughts of me, not as I am to-day, 
With faltering step and brimming eyes and aspect grimly gray; 
But thoughts that picture me as fair and full of life and glee 
As we were in the olden times — as you shall always be. 
Think of me ever, Mary, as the boy you used to know 
When time was fleet, and life was sweet, and I was Mary's beau. 

Dear hills of old New England, look down with tender eyes 

Upon one little lonely grave that in your bosom lies; 

For in that cradle sleeps a child who was so fair to see 

God yearned to have unto Himself the joy she brought to me; 

And bid your winds sing soft and low the song of other days, 

When, hand in hand and heart to heart, we went our pleasant 

ways — 
Ah me! but could I sing again that song of long ago, 
Instead of this poor idle song of being Mary's beau. 



JESSIE 



When I remark her golden hair 

Swoon on her glorious shoulders, 
I marvel not that sight so rare 

Doth ravish all beholders; 
For summon hence all pretty girls 

Renowned for beauteous tresses, 
And you shall find among their curls 

There 's none so fair as Jessie's. 



TO EMMA ABBOTT 145 

And Jessie's eyes are, oh, so blue 

And full of sweet revealings — 
They seem to look you through and through 

And read your inmost feelings; 
Nor black emits such ardent fires, 
• Nor brown such truth expresses — 
Admit it, all ye gallant squires — 

There are no eyes like Jessie's. 

Her voice (like liquid beams that roll 

From moonland to the river) 
Steals subtly to the raptured soul, 

Therein to lie and quiver; 
Or falls upon the grateful ear 

With chaste and warm caresses — 
Ah, all concede the truth (who hear) : 

There 's no such voice as Jessie's. 

Of other charms she hath such store 

All rivalry excelling, 
Though I used adjectives galore, 

They 'd fail me in the telling; 
But now discretion stays my hand — 

ildieu, eyes, voice, and tresses. 
Of all the husbands in the land 

There 's none so fierce as Jessie's. 



TO EMMA ABBOTT 

There — let thy hands be folded 

Awhile in sleep's repose; 
The patient hands that wearied not, 
But earnestly and nobly wrought 
In charity and faith; 
And let thy dear eyes close — 
The eyes that looked alway to God, 
Nor quailed beneath the chastening rod 
Of sorrow; 



146 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

Fold thou thy hands and eyes 
For just a little while, 
And with a smile 

Dream of the morrow. 

And, O white voiceless flower, 

The dream which thou shalt dream 
Should be a glimpse of heavenly things, 
For yonder like a seraph sings 

The sweetness of a life 
With faith alway its theme; 
While speedeth from those realms above 
The messenger of that dear love 
That healeth sorrow. 
So sleep a little while, 

For thou shalt wake and sing 
Before thy King 

When cometh the morrow. 






THE GREAT JOURNALIST IN SPAIN 

Good editor Dana — God bless him, we say — 
Will soon be afloat on the main, 
Will be steaming away 
Through the mist and the spray 
To the sensuous climate of Spain. 

Strange sights shall he see in that beautiful land 
Which is famed for its soap and its Moor, 
For, as we understand, 
The scenery is grand 
Though the system of railways is poor. 

For moonlight of silver and sunlight of gold 
Glint the orchards of lemons and mangoes, 

And the ladies, we 're told, 

Are a joy to behold 
As they twine in their lissome fandangoes. 



THE STODDARDS 147 

What though our friend Dana shall twang a guitar 
And murmur a passionate strain; 

Oh, fairer by far 

Than those ravishments are 
The castles abounding in Spain. 

These castles are built as the builder may list — - 
They are sometimes of marble or stone, 

But they mostly consist 

Of east wind and mist 
With an ivy of froth overgrown. 

A beautiful castle our Dana shall raise 
On a futile foundation of hope, 

And its glories shall blaze 

In the somnolent haze 
Of the mythical lake del y Soap. 

The fragrance of sunflowers shall swoon on the air 
And the visions of Dreamland obtain, 

And the song of "World's Fair" 

Shall be heard everywhere 
Through that beautiful castle in Spain. 



THE STODDARDS 

When I am in New York, I like to drop around at night, 
To visit with my honest, genial friends, the Stoddards hight; 
Their home in Fifteenth street is all so snug, and furnished so, 
That, when I once get planted there, I don't know when to go; 
A cosey cheerful refuge for the weary homesick guest, 
Combining Yankee comforts with the freedom of the West. 

The first thing you discover, as you maunder through the hall, 
Is a curious little clock upon a bracket on the wall; 



148 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

'T was made by Stoddard's father, and it 's very, very old — 

The connoisseurs assure me it is worth its weight in gold; 

And I, who 've bought all kinds of clocks, 'twixt Denver and the 

Rhine, 
Cast envious eyes upon that clock, and wish that it were mine. 

But in the parlor. Oh, the gems on tables, walls, and floor — 
Rare first editions, etchings, and old crockery galore. 
Why, talk about the Indies and the wealth of Orient things — 
They couldn't hold a candle to these quaint and sumptuous 

things ; 
In such profusion, too — Ah me! how dearly I recall 
How I have sat and watched 'em and wished I had 'em all. 

Now, Mr. Stoddard's study is on the second floor, 

A wee blind dog barks at me as I enter through the door; 

The Cerberus would fain begrudge what sights it cannot see, 

The rapture of that visual feast it cannot share with me; 

A miniature edition this — this most absurd of hounds — 

A genuine unique, I 'm sure, and one unknown to Lowndes. 

Books — always books — are piled around; some musty, and all old; 
Tall, solemn folios such as Lamb declared he loved to hold; 
Large paper copies with their virgin margins white and wide, 
And presentation volumes with the author's comps. inside; 
I break the tenth commandment with a wild impassioned cry: 
Oh, how came Stoddard by these things? Why Stoddard, and 
not I? 

From yonder wall looks Thackeray upon his poet friend, 
And underneath the genial face appear the lines he penned; 
And here, gadzooks, ben honge ye prynte of marvaillous renowne 
Yt shameth Chaucers gallaunt knyghtes in Canterbury towne; 
And still more books and pictures. I 'm dazed, bewildered, vexed ; 
Since I 've broke the tenth commandment, why not break the eighth 
one next? 

And, furthermore, in confidence inviolate be it said 

Friend Stoddard owns a lock of hair that grew on Milton's head; 



THE STODDARDS 149 

Now I have Gladstone axes and a lot of curious things, 

Such as pimply Dresden teacups and old German wedding-rings; 

But nothing like that saintly lock have I on wall or shelf, 

And, being somewhat short of hair, I should like that lock myself. 

But Stoddard has a soothing way, as though he grieved to see 

Invidious torments prey upon a nice young chap like me. 

He waves me to an easy chair and hands me out a weed 

And pumps me full of that advice he seems to know I need; 

So sweet the tap of his philosophy and knowledge flows 

That I can't help wishing that I knew a half what Stoddard knows. 

And so we sit for hours and hours, praising without restraint 
The people who are thoroughbreds, and roasting the ones that ain't; 
Happy, thrice happy, is the man we happen to admire, 
But wretched, oh, how wretched he that hath provoked our ire; 
For I speak emphatic English when I once get fairly r'iled, 
And Stoddard's wrath 's an Ossa upon a Pelion piled. 

Out yonder, in the alcove, a lady sits and darns, 
And interjects remarks that always serve to spice our yarns; 
She 's Mrs. Stoddard; there 's a dame that 's truly to my heart: 
A tiny little woman, but so quaint, and good, and smart 
That, if you asked me to suggest which one I should prefer 
Of all the Stoddard treasures, I should promptly mention her. 

O dear old man, how I should like to be with you this night, 
Down in your home in Fifteenth street, where all is snug and bright; 
Where the shaggy little Cerberus dreams in its cushioned place, 
And the books and pictures all around smile in their old friend's face; 
Where the dainty little sweetheart, whom you still were proud to woo, 
Charms back the tender memories so dear to her and you. 



150 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

THE THREE TAILORS 

I shall tell you in rhyme how, once on a time, 
Three tailors tramped up to the inn Ingleheim, 

On the Rhine, lovely Rhine; 
They were broke, but the worst of it all, they were curst 
With that malady common to tailors — a thirst 

For wine, lots of wine. 

"Sweet host," quoth the three, "we 're hard up as can be, 
Yet skilled in the practice of cunning are we, 

On the Rhine, genial Rhine; 
And we pledge you we will impart you that skill 
Right quickly and fully, providing you '11 fill 

Us with wine, cooling wine." 

But that host shook his head, and he warily said: 
"Though cunning be good, we take money instead, 

On the Rhine, thrifty Rhine; 
If ye fancy ye may without pelf have your way 
You '11 find there 's both host and the devil to pay 

For your wine, costly wine." 

Then the first knavish wight took his needle so bright 
And threaded its eye with a wee ray of light 

From the Rhine, sunny Rhine; 
And, in such a deft way, patched a mirror that day 
That where it was mended no expert could say — 

Done so fine 't was for wine. 

The second thereat spied a poor little gnat 
Go toiling along on his nose broad and flat 

Towards the Rhine, pleasant Rhine; 
"Aha, tiny friend, I should hate to offend, 
But your stockings need darning" — which same did he mend, 

All for wine, soothing wine. 

And next there occurred what you '11 deem quite absurd — 
His needle a space in the wall thrust the third. 
By the Rhine, wondrous Rhine; 



THE JAFFA AND JERUSALEM RAILWAY 151 

And then all so spry, he leapt through the eye 
Of that thin cambric needle — nay, think you I 'd lie 
About wine — not for wine. 

The landlord allowed (with a smile) he was proud 
To do the fair thing by that talented crowd 

On the Rhine, generous Rhine. 
So a thimble filled he as full as could be — 
"Drink long and drink hearty, my jolly friends three, 

Of my wine, filling wine. ,, 



THE JAFFA AND JERUSALEM RAILWAY 

A tortuous double iron track; a station here, a station there; 
A locomotive, tender, tanks; a coach with stiff reclining chair; 
Some postal cars, and baggage, too; a vestibule of patent make; 
With buffers, duffers, switches, and the soughing automatic brake — 
This is the Orient's novel pride, and Syria's gaudiest modern gem: 
The railway scheme that is to ply 'twixt Jaffa and Jerusalem. 

Beware, O sacred Mooley cow, the engine when you hear its bell ; 
Beware, O camel, when resounds the whistle's shrill, unholy swell; 
And, native of that guileless land, unused to modern travel's snare, 
Beware the fiend that peddles books — the awful peanut-boy beware. 
Else, trusting in their specious arts, you may have reason to con- 
demn 
The traffic which the knavish ply 'twixt Jaffa and Jerusalem. 

And when, ah, when the bonds fall due, how passing wroth will 

wax the state 
From Nebo's mount to Nazareth will spread the cry "Repudiate"! 
From Hebron to Tiberius, from Jordan's banks unto the sea, 

Will rise profuse anathemas against "that monopoly! " 

And F. M. B. A. shepherd-folk, with Sockless Jerry leading them, 
Will swamp that corporation line 'twixt Jaffa and Jerusalem. 



152 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

THE WOOING OF THE SOUTHLAND 

(ALASKAN BALLAD) 

The Northland reared his hoary head 
And spied the Southland leagues away — 

"Fairest of all fair brides," he said, 
"Be thou my bride, I pray!" 

Whereat the Southland laughed and cried: 

"I '11 bide beside my native sea, 
And I shall never be thy bride 

Till thou com'st wooing me!" 

The Northland's heart was a heart of ice, 
A diamond glacier, mountain high — 

Oh, love is sweet at any price, 
As well know you and I! 

So gayly the Northland took his heart 

And cast it in the wailing sea — 
"Go, thou, with all thy cunning art. 

And woo my bride for me!" 

For many a night and for many a day, 
And over the leagues that rolled between, 

The true-heart messenger sped away 
To woo the Southland queen. 

But the sea wailed loud, and the sea wailed long, 
While ever the Northland cried in glee: 

"Oh, thou shalt sing us our bridal song, 
When comes my bride, O sea!" 

At the foot of the Southland's golden throne 
The heart of the Northland ever throbs — 

For that true-heart speaks in the waves that moan, 
The songs that it sings are sobs. 



STAR OF THE EAST 153 

Ever the Southland spurns the cries 

Of the messenger pleading the Northland's part; 
The summer shines in the Southland's eyes — 

The winter bides in her heart! 

And ever unto that far-off place 

Which love doth render a hallowed spot, 

The Northland turneth his honest face 
And wonders she cometh not. 

The sea wails loud, and the sea wails long, 

As the ages of waiting drift slowly by 
But the sea shall sing no bridal song — 

As well know you and I! 



STAR OF THE EAST 

Star of the East, that long ago 

Brought wise men on their way 
Where, angels singing to and fro, 
The Child of Bethlehem lay- 
Above that Syrian hill afar 
Thou shinest out to-night, O Star! 

Star of the East, the night were drear 

But for the tender grace 
That with thy glory comes to cheer 

Earth's loneliest, darkest place; 
For by that charity we see 
Where there is hope for all and me. 

Star of the East! show us the way 

In wisdom undefiled 
To seek that manger out and lay 

Our gifts before the child — 
To bring our hearts and offer them 
Unto our King in Bethlehem! 



154 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 



TWIN IDOLS 



There are two phrases, you must know, 

So potent (yet so small) 
That wheresoe'er a man may go 

He needs none else at all; 
No servile guide to lead the way 

Nor lackey at his heel, 
If he be learned enough to say 

"Comme bien" and "Wie viel." 



The sleek, pomaded Parleyvoo 

Will air his sweetest airs 
And quote the highest rates when you 

"Comme bien" for his wares; 
And, though the German stolid be, 

His so-called heart of steel 
Becomes as soft as wax when he 

Detects the words "Wie viel." 



Go, search the boulevards and rues 

From Havre to Marseilles — 
You '11 find all eloquence you use 

Except "Comme bien" fails; 
Or in the country auf der Rhine 

Essay a business deal 
And all your art is good fuhr nein 

Beyond the point — "Wie viel." 

It matters not what game or prey 

Attracts your greedy eyes — 
You must pursue the good old way 

If you would win the prize; 
It is to get a titled mate 

All run down at the heel, 
If you inquire of stock effete, 

"Comme bien" or "Wie viel." 



BEN APFELGARTEN 155 

So he is wise who envieth not 

A wealth of foreign speech, 
Since with two phrases may be got 

Whatever 's in his reach; 
For Europe is a soulless shrine 

In which all classes kneel 
Before twin idols, deemed divine — 

"Comme bien" and "Wie viel." 



BEN APFELGARTEN 

There was a certain gentleman, Ben Apfelgarten called, 

Who lived way off in Germany a many years ago, 
And he was very fortunate in being very bald 
And so was very happy he was so. 

He warbled all the day 

Such songs as only they 
Who are very, very circumspect and very happy may; 

The people wondered why, 

As the years went gliding by, 
They never heard him once complain or even heave a sigh! 

The women of the province fell in love with genial Ben, 
Till (maybe you can fancy it) the dickens was to pay 
Among the callow students and the sober-minded men — 
With the women-folk a-cuttin' up that way! 

Why, they gave him turbans red 

To adorn his hairless head, 
And knitted jaunty nightcaps to protect him when abed! 

In vain the rest demurred — 

Not a single chiding word 
Those ladies deigned to tolerate — remonstrance was absurd!, 

Things finally got into such a very dreadful way 

That the others (oh, how artful) formed the politic design 

To send him to the reichstag; so, one dull November day, 
They elected him a member from the Rhine! 



156 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

Then the other members said: 

"Gott im Himmel! what a head!" 
But they marvelled when his speeches they listened to or read; 

And presently they cried: 

"There must be heaps inside 
Of the smooth and shiny cranium his constituents deride!" 

Well, when at last he up 'nd died — long past his ninetieth year — 

The strangest and the most lugubrious funeral he had, 
For women came in multitudes to weep upon his bier — 

The men all wond'ring why on earth the women had gone 
mad! 

And this wonderment increased 
Till the sympathetic priest 
Inquired of those same ladies: "Why this fuss about deceased?" 
Whereupon were they appalled, 
For, as one, those women squalled: 
"We doted on deceased for being bald — bald — bald!" 

He was bald because his genius burnt that shock of hair away 

Which, elsewise, clogs one's keenness and activity of mind; 
And (barring present company, of course) I 'm free to say 
That, after all, it 's intellect that captures womankind. 
At any rate, since then 
(With a precedent in Ben), 
The women-folk have been in love with us bald-headed men! 



THE DREAMS 

Two dreams came down to earth one night 

From the realm of mist and dew; 
One was a dream of the old, old days, 

And one was a dream of the new. 

One was a dream of a shady lane 

That led to the pickerel pond 
Where the willows and rushes bowed themselves 

To the brown old hills beyond. 



THE DREAMS 157 

And the people that peopled the old-time dream 

Were pleasant and fair to see, 
And the dreamer he walked with them again 

As often of old walked he. 

Oh, cool was the wind in the shady lane 

That tangled his curly hair! 
Oh, sweet was the music the robins made 

To the springtime everywhere! 

Was it the dew the dream had brought 

From yonder midnight skies, 
Or was it tears from the dear, dead years 

That lay in the dreamer's eyes? 

The other dream ran fast and free, 

As the moon benignly shed 
Her golden grace on the smiling face 

In the little trundle-bed. 

For 't was a dream of times to come — 

Of the glorious noon of day — 
Of the summer that follows the careless spring 

When the child is done with play. 

And 't was a dream of the busy world 

Where valorous deeds are done; 
Of battles fought in the cause of right, 

And of victories nobly won. 

It breathed no breath of the dear old home 

And the quiet joys of youth; 
It gave no glimpse of the good old friends 

Or the old-time faith and truth. 

But 't was a dream of youthful hopes, 

And fast and free it ran, 
And it told to a little sleeping child 

Of a boy become a man! 



158 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

These were the dreams that came one night 

To earth from yonder sky; 
These were the dreams two dreamers dreamed- 

My little boy and and I. 

And in our hearts my boy and I 

Were glad that it was so; 
He loved to dream of days to come, 

And I of long ago. 

So from our dreams my boy and I 

Unwillingly awoke, 
But neither of his precious dream 

Unto the other spoke. 

Yet of the love we bore those dreams 
Gave each his tender sign; 
For there was triumph in his eyes — 
And there were tears in mine ! 



IN NEW ORLEANS 

'Twas in the Crescent City not long ago befell 

The tear-compelling incident I now propose to tell; 

So come, my sweet collector friends, and listen while I sing 

Unto your delectation this brief, pathetic thing — 

No lyric pitched in vaunting key, but just a requiem 

Of blowing twenty dollars in by nine o'clock a. m. 

Let critic folk the poet's use of vulgar slang upbraid, 

But, when I 'm speaking by the card, I call a spade a spade; 

And I, who have been touched of that same mania, myself, 

Am well aware that, when it comes to parting with his pelf, 

The curio collector is so blindly lost in sin 

That he doesn't spend his money — he simply blows it in! 



IN NEW ORLEANS 159 

In Royal street (near Conti) there 's a lovely curio-shop, 

And there, one balmy, fateful morn, it was my chance to stop; 

To stop was hesitation — in a moment I was lost — 

That kind of hesitation does not hesitate at cost! 

I spied a pewter tankard there, and, my! it was a gem — 

And the clock in old St. Louis told the hour of eight a. m.! 

Three quaint Bohemian bottles, too, of yellow and of green, 
Cut in archaic fashion that I ne'er before had seen; 
A lovely, hideous platter wreathed about with pink and rose, 
With its curious depression into which the gravy flows; 
Two dainty silver salts — oh, there was no resisting them — 
And I 'd blown in twenty dollars by nine o'clock a. m. 

With twenty dollars, one who is a prudent man, indeed, 
Can buy the wealth of useful things his wife and children need; 
Shoes, stockings, knickerbockers, gloves, bibs, nursing-bottles, caps, 
A gown — the gown for which his spouse too long has pined, per- 
haps! 
These and ten thousand other spectres harrow and condemn 
The man who 's blown in twenty by nine o'clock a. m. 

Oh, mean advantage conscience takes (and one that I abhor!) 
In asking one this question: "What did you buy it for?" 
Why doesn't conscience ply its blessed trade before the act, 
Before one's cussedness becomes a bald, accomplished fact — 
Before one 's fallen victim to the Tempter's stratagem 
And blown in twenty dollars by nine o'clock a. m. ? 

Ah me! now that the deed is done, how penitent I am! 
I was a roaring lion — behold a bleating lamb! 
I 've packed and shipped those precious things to that more pre- 
cious wife 
Who shares with our sweet babes the strange vicissitudes of life, 
While he who, in his folly, gave up his store of wealth 
Is far away, and means to keep his distance — for his health! 



160 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 



MY PLAYMATES 

The wind comes whispering to me of the country green and cool — 

Of redwing blackbirds chattering beside a reedy pool; 

It brings me soothing fancies of the homestead on the hill, 

And I hear the thrush's evening song and the robin's morning trill; 

So I fall to thinking tenderly of those I used to know 

Where the sassafras and snakeroot and checkerberries grow. 

What has become of Ezra Marsh, who lived on Baker's hill? 
And what 's become of Noble Pratt, whose father kept the mill ? 
And what 's become of Lizzie Crum and Anastasia Snell, 
And of Roxie Root, who 'tended school in Boston for a spell? 
They were the boys and they the girls who shared my youthful 

play— 
They do not answer to my call! My playmates — where are they? 

What has become of Levi and his little brother Joe, 
Who lived next door to where we lived some forty years ago ? 
I 'd like to see the Newton boys and Quincy Adams Brown, 
And Hepsy Hall and Ella Cowles, who spelled the whole school 

down! 
And Gracie Smith, the Cutler boys, Leander Snow, and all 
Who I am sure would answer could they only hear my call! 

I 'd like to see Bill Warner and the Conkey boys again 

And talk about the times we used to wish that we were men! 

And one — I shall not name her — could I see her gentle face 

And hear her girlish treble in this distant, lonely place! 

The flowers and hopes of springtime — they perished long ago, 

And the garden where they blossomed is white with winter snow. 

O cottage 'neath the maples, have you seen those girls and boys 
That but a little while ago made, oh! such pleasant noise? 

trees, and hills, and brooks, and lanes, and meadows, do you 

know 
Where I shall find my little friends of forty years ago? 
You see I 'm old and weary, and I 've travelled long and far; 

1 am looking for my playmates — I wonder where they are! 



STOVES AND SUNSHINE 161 



STOVES AND SUNSHINE 

Prate, ye who will, of so-called charms you find across the sea — 
The land of stoves and sunshine is good enough for me! 
I 've done the grand for fourteen months in every foreign clime, 
And I 've learned a heap of learning, but I 've shivered all the time; 
And the biggest bit of wisdom I 've acquired — as I can see — 
Is that which teaches that this land 's the land of lands for me. 

Now, I am of opinion that a person should get some 

Warmth in this present life of ours, not all in that to come; 

So when Boreas blows his blast, through country and through 

town, 
Or when upon the muddy streets the stifling fog rolls down, 
Go, guzzle in a pub, or plod some bleak malarious grove, 
But let me toast my shrunken shanks beside some Yankee stove. 

The British people say they "don't believe in stoves, y' know"; 
Perchance because we warmed 'em so completely years afro! 
They talk of "drahfts" and "stuffiness" and "ill effects of heat," 
As they chatter in their barny rooms or shiver 'round the street; 
With sunshine such a rarity, and stoves esteemed a sin, 
What wonder they are wedded to their fads — catarrh and gin ? 

In Germany are stoves galore, and yet you seldom find 

A fire within the stoves, for German stoves are not that kind; 

The Germans say that fires make dirt, and dirt 's an odious 

thing, 
But the truth is that the pfennig is the average Teuton's king, 
And since the fire costs pfennigs, why, the thrifty soul denies 
Himself all heat except what comes with beer and exercise. 

The Frenchman builds a fire of cones, the Irishman of peat; 
The frugal Dutchman buys a fire when he has need of heat — 
That is to say, he pays so much each day to one who brings 
The necessary living coals to warm his soup and things; 
In Italy and Spain they have no need to heat the house — 
Neath balmy skies the native picks the mandolin and louse. 



162 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

Now, we 've no mouldy catacombs, no feudal castles grim, 

No ruined monasteries, no abbeys ghostly dim; 

Our ancient history is new, our future 's all ahead, 

And we 've got a tariff bill that 's made all Europe sick abed — 

But what is best, though short on tombs and academic groves, 

We double discount Christendom on sunshine and on stoves. 

Dear land of mine! I come to you from months of chill and 

storm, 
Blessing the honest people whose hearts and hearths are warm; 
A fairer, sweeter song than this I mean to weave to you 
When I 've reached my lakeside 'dobe and once get heated through; 
But, even then, the burthen of that fairer song shall be 
That the land of stoves and sunshine is good enough for me. 



A DRINKING SONG 

Come, brothers, share the fellowship 

We celebrate to-night; 
There 's grace of song on every lip 

And every heart is light! 
But first, before our mentor chimes 

The hour of jubilee, 
Let 's drink a health to good old times, 
And good times yet to be! 
Clink, clink, clink! 
Merrily let us drink! 
There 's store of wealth 
And more of health 
In every glass, we think. 
Clink, clink, clink! 
To fellowship we drink! 
And from the bowl 
No genial soul 
In^uch an hour can shrink. 



THE STRAW PARLOR 163 

And you, oh, friends from west and east 

And other foreign parts, 
Come share the rapture of our feast, 

The love of loyal hearts; 
And in the wassail that suspends 

All matters burthensome, 
We '11 drink a health to good old friends 
And good friends yet to come. 
Glink, clink, clink! 
To fellowship we drink! 
And from the bowl 
No genial soul 
In such an hour will shrink. 
Clink, clink, clink! 
Merrily let us drink! 
There 's fellowship 
In every sip 
Of friendship's brew, we think. 



THE STRAW PARLOR 

Way up at the top of a big stack of straw 

Was the cunningest parlor that ever you saw! 

And there could you lie when weary of play 

And gossip or laze in the cosiest way; 

No matter how careworn or sorry one's mood 

No worldly distraction presumed to intrude. 

As a refuge from onerous mundane ado 

I think I approve of straw parlors, don't you? 

A swallow with jewels aflame on her breast 

On that straw parlor's ceiling had builded her nest; 

And she flew in and out all the happy day long, 

And twittered the soothingest lullaby song. 

Now some might suppose that that beautiful bird 

Performed for her babies the music they heard; 

I reckon she twittered her repertoire through 

For the folk in the little straw parlor, don't you? 



164 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

And down from a rafter a spider had hung 

Some swings upon which he incessantly swung. 

He cut up such didoes — such antics he played 

Way up in the air, and was never afraid! 

He never made use of his horrid old sting, 

But was just upon earth for the fun of the thing! 

I deeply regret to observe that so few 

Of these good-natured insects are met with, don't you? 

And, down in the strawstack, a wee little mite 
Of a cricket went chirping by day and by night; 
And further down, still, a cunning blue mouse 
In a snug little nook of that strawstack kept house! 
When the cricket went "chirp," Miss Mousie would squeak 
"Come in," and a blush would enkindle her cheek! 
She thought — silly girl! 'twas a beau come to woo, 
But I guess it was only the cricket, don't you? 

So the cricket, the mouse, and the motherly bird 
Made as soothingsome music as ever you heard; 
And, meanwhile, that spider by means of his swings 
Achieved most astounding gyrations and things! 
No wonder the little folk liked what they saw 
And loved what they heard in that parlor of straw! 
With the mercury up to 102 
In the shade, I opine they just sizzled, don't you? 

But once there invaded that Eden of straw 

The evilest Feline that ever you saw! 

She pounced on that cricket with rare promptitude 

And she tucked him away where he'd do the most good; 

And then, reaching down to the nethermost house, 

She deftly expiscated little Miss Mouse! 

And, as for the Swallow, she shrieked and withdrew — 

I rather admire her discretion, don't you? 

Now listen: That evening a cyclone obtained, 
And the mortgage was all on that farm that remained! 
Barn, strawstack and spider — they all blew away, 
And nobody knows where they're at to this day! 



THE DISCREET COLLECTOR 165 

And, as for the little straw parlor, I fear 

It was wafted clean off ti is sublunary sphere ! 

I really incline to a hearty "boo-hoo" 

When I think of this tragical ending, don't you ? 



THE DISCREET COLLECTOR 

Down south there is a curio-shop 

Unknown to many men; 
Thereat do I intend to stop 

When I am South again; 
The narrow street through which to go- 

Aha! I know it well! 
And maybe you would like to know — 

But no — I will not tell! 

'T is there to find the loveliest plates 
(The bluest of the blue!) 

At such surprisingly low rates 
You 'd not believe it true! 

And there is one Napoleon vase 
Of dainty Sevres to sell — 

I 'm sure you 'd like to know that place- 
But no— I will not tell! 

Then, too, I know another shop 

Has old, old beds for sale, 
With lovely testers up on top 

Carved in ornate detail; 
And there are sideboards rich and rare, 

With fronts that proudly swell — 
Oh, there are bargains waiting there, 

But where I will not tell! 

And hark! I know a bottle-man 

Smiling and debonair, 
And he has promised me I can 

Choose of his precious ware! 



166 WESTERN AND OTHERN VERSE 

In age and shape and color, too, 
His dainty goods excel — 

Aha, my friends, if you but knew — 
But no! I will not tell! 

A thousand other shops I know 

Where bargains can be got — 
Where other folk would like to go 

Who have what I have not. 
I let them hunt; I hold my mouth — 

Yes, though I know full well 
Where lie the treasures of the South, 

I 'm not a-going to tell! 



THE WIND 

(the tale) 

Cometh the Wind from the garden, fragrant and full of sweet 

singing — 
Under my tree where I sit cometh the Wind to confession. 

"Out in the garden abides the Queen of the beautiful Roses — 
Her do I love and to-night wooed her with passionate singing; 
Told I my love in those songs, and answer she gave in her 

blushes — 
She shall be bride of the Wind, and she is the Queen of the 

Roses!" 

"Wind, there is spice in thy breath; thy rapture hath fragrance 
Sabsean!" 

"Straight from my wooing I come — my lips are bedewed with her 

kisses — 
My lips and my song and my heart are drunk with the rapture 

of loving!" 



THE WIND 167 

(the song) 

The Wind he loveth the red, red Rose, 
And he wooeth his love to wed: 
Sweet is his song 
The Summer long 
As he kisseth her lips so red; 
And he recketh naught of the ruin wrought 
When the Summer of love is sped! 

(again the tale) 
Cometh the Wind from the garden, bitter with sorrow of winter. 

"Wind, is thy love-song forgot? Wherefore thy dread lamenta- 
tions?" 

Sigheth and moaneth the Wind: "Out of the desolate garden 
Come I from vigils with ghosts over the grave of the Summer!" 

"Thy breath that was fragrant anon with rapture of music and 

loving, 
It grieveth all things with its sting and the frost of its wailing 

displeasure." 

The Wind maketh evermore moan and ever it giveth this answer: 

"My heart it is numb with the cold of the love that was born of 
the Summer — 

I come from the garden all white with the wrath and the sorrow 
of Winter; 

I have kissed the low, desolate tomb where my bride in her loveli- 
ness lieth 

And the voice of the ghost in my heart is the voice that forever 
outcrieth!" 

(again the song) 

The Wind he waileth the red, red Rose 
When the Summer of love is sped — 



168 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

He waileth above 

His lifeless love 
With her shroud of snow o'erspread — 
Crieth such things as a true heart brings 
To the grave of its precious dead. 



A PARAPHRASE 

Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name; 

Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth, in Heaven the 

same; 
Give us this day our daily bread, and may our debts to Heaven — 
As we our earthly debts forgive — by Thee be all forgiven; 
When tempted or by evil vexed, restore Thou us again, 
And Thine be the Kingdom, the Power, and the Glory, forever and 

ever; amen. 



WITH BRUTUS IN ST. JO 

Of all the opry-houses then obtaining in the West 
The one which Milton Tootle owned was, by all odds, the best; 
Milt, being rich, was much too proud to run the thing alone, 
So he hired an ''acting manager," a gruff old man named Krone — 
A stern, commanding man with piercing eyes and flowing beard, 
And his voice assumed a thunderous tone when Jack and I ap- 
peared; 
He said that Julius Csesar had been billed a week or so, 
And would have to have some armies by the time he reached St. Jo ! 

O happy days, when Tragedy still winged an upward flight, 
When actors wore tin helmets and cambric robes at night! 
O happy days, when sounded in the public's rapturous ears 
The creak of pasteboard armor and the clash of wooden spears! 
O happy times for Jack and me and that one other supe 
That then and there did constitute the noblest Roman's troop! 
With togas, battle axes, shields, we made a dazzling show, 
When we were Roman soldiers with Brutus in St. Jo! 



WITH BRUTUS IN ST. JO 169 

We wheeled and filed and double-quicked wherever Brutus led, 
The folks applauding what we did as much as what he said; 
'T was work, indeed; yet Jack and I were willing to allow 
'T was easier following Brutus than following father's plough; 
And at each burst of cheering, our valor would increase — 
We tramped a thousand miles that night, at fifty cents apiece! 
For love of Art — not lust for gold — consumed us years ago, 
When we were Roman soldiers with Brutus in St. Jo! 

To-day, while walking in the Square, Jack Langrish says to me: 
"My friend, the drama nowadays ain't what it used to be! 
These farces and these comedies — how feebly they compare 
With that mantle of the tragic art which Forrest used to wear! 
My soul is warped with bitterness to think that you and I — 
Co-heirs to immortality in seasons long gone by — 
Now draw a paltry stipend from a Boston comic show, 
We, who were Roman soldiers with Brutus in St. Jo!" 

And so we talked and so we mused upon the whims of Fate 
That had degraded Tragedy from its old, supreme estate; 
And duly, at the Morton bar, we stigmatized the age 
As sinfully subversive of the interests of the Stage! 
For Jack and I were actors in the halcyon, palmy days 
Long, long before the Hoyt school of farce became the craze; 
Yet, as I now recall it, it was twenty years ago 
That we were Roman soldiers with Brutus in St. Jo! 

We were by birth descended from a race of farmer kings 
Who had done eternal battle with grasshoppers and things; 
But the Kansas farms grew tedious — we pined for that delight 
We read of in the Clipper in the barber's shop by night! 
We would be actors — Jack and I — and so we stole away 
From our native spot, Wathena, one dull September day, 
And started for Missouri — ah, little did we know 
We were going to train as soldiers with Brutus in St. Jo! 

Our army numbered three in all — Marc Antony's was four; 
Our army hankered after fame, but Marc's was after gore! 
And when we reached Philippi, at the outset we were met 
With an inartistic gusto I can never quite forget. 



i70 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

For Antony's overwhelming force of thumpers seemed to be 
Resolved to do "them Kansas jays" — and that meant Jack and me! 
My lips were sealed but that it seems quite proper you should know 
That Rome was nowhere in it at Philippi in St. Jo! 

I've known the slow-consuming grief and ostentatious pain 
Accruing from McKean Buchanan's melancholy Dane; 
Away out West I've witnessed Bandmann's peerless hardihood, 
With Arthur Cambridge have I wrought where walking was not 

good; 
In every phase of horror have I bravely borne my part, 
And even on my uppers have I proudly stood for Art! 
And, after all my suffering, it were not hard to show 
That I got my allopathic dose with Brutus at St. Jo! 

That army fell upon me in a most bewildering rage 

And scattered me and mine upon that histrionic stage; 

My toga rent, my helmet gone and smashed to smithereens, 

They picked me up and hove me through whole centuries of scenes ! 

I sailed through Christian eras and mediaeval gloom 

And fell from Arden forest into Juliet's painted tomb! 

Oh, yes, I travelled far and fast that night, and I can show 

The scars of honest wounds I got with Brutus in St. Jo! 

Ah me, old Davenport is gone, of fickle fame forgot, 
And Barrett sleeps forever in a much neglected spot; 
Fred Warde, the papers tell me, in far woolly western lands 
Still flaunts the banner of high Tragic Art at one-night stands; 
And Jack and I, in Charley Hoyt's Bostonian dramas wreak 
Our vengeance on creation at some eensty dolls, per week. 
By which you see that public taste has fallen mighty low 
Since we fought as Roman soldiers with Brutus in St. Jo! 



PAN LIVETH 171 

PAN LIVETH 

They told me once that Pan was dead, 

And so, in sooth, I thought him; 
For vainly where the streamlets led 

Through flowery meads I sought him — 
Nor in his dewy pasture bed 
Nor in the grove I caught him. 

" Tell me," 'twas so my clamor ran — 
" Tell me, oh, where is Pan?" 

But, once, as on my pipe I played 

A requiem sad and tender, 
Lo, thither came a shepherd-maid — 

Full comely she and slender! 

I were indeed a churlish blade 

With wailings to offend 'er — 

For, surely, wooing' s sweeter than 
A mourning over Pan! 

So, presently, whiles I did scan 

That shepherd-maiden pretty, 

And heard her accents, I began 

To pipe a cheerful ditty; 
And so, betimes, forgot old Pan 
Whose death had waked my pity; 
So — so did Love undo the man 
Who sought and fined for Pan! 



He was not dead! I found him there — 

The Pan that I was after! 
Caught in that maiden's tangling hair, 
Drunk with her song and laughter! 
I doubt if there be otherwhere 
A merrier god or dafter — 

Nay, nor a mortal kindlier than 
Is this same dear old Pan! 



172 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

Beside me, as my pipe I play, 

My shepherdess is lying, 
While here and there her lambkins stray 

As sunny hours go flying; 
They look like me — those lambs — they say, 
And that I 'm not denying! 

And for that sturdy, romping clan, 
All glory be to Pan! 

Pan is not dead, O sweetheart mine! 

It is to hear his voices 
In every note and every line 
Wherein the heart rejoices! 
He liveth in that sacred shrine 

That Love's first, holiest choice is! 
So pipe, my pipe, while still you can, 
Sweet songs in praise of Pan! 



DR. SAM 



TO MISS GRACE KING 



Down in the old French quarter, 
Just out of Rampart street, 
I went my way 
At close of day 
Unto the quaint retreat 
Where lives the Voodoo Doctor 

By some esteemed a sham, 
Yet I '11 declare there 's none elsewhere 
So skilled as Doctor Sam 

With the claws of a devilled crawfish, 
The juice of the prickly prune, 
And the quivering dew 
From a yarb that grew 
In the light of a midnight moon! 



DR. SAM 173 



I never should have known him 
But for the colored folk 
That here obtain 
And ne'er in vain 
That wizard's art invoke; 
For when the Eye that 's Evil 
Would him and his'n damn, 
The negro's grief gets quick relief 
Of Hoodoo-Doctor Sam. 
With the caul of an alligator, 
The plume of an unborn loon, 
And the poison wrung 
From a serpent's tongue 
By the light of the midnight moon ! 



In all neurotic ailments 
I hear that he excels, 
And he insures 
Immediate cures 
Of weird, uncanny spells; 
The most unruly patient 
Gets docile as a lamb 
And is freed from ill by the potent skill 
Of Hoodoo-Doctor Sam; 

Feathers of strangled chickens, 
Moss from the dank lagoon, 
And plasters wet 
With spider siveat 
In the light of a midnight moon! 

They say when nights are grewsome 
And hours are, oh! so late, 
Old Sam steals out 
And hunts about 
For charms that hoodoos hate! 
That from the moaning river 
And from the haunted glen 
He silently brings what eerie things 
Give peace to hoodooed men: — 



174 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

The tongue of a -piebald 'possum, 

The tooth of a senile 'coon, 
The buzzard's breath that smells of death, 
And the film that lies 
On a lizard's eyes 
In the light of a midnight moon! 



WINFREDA 

(A BALLAD IN THE ANGLO-SAXON TONGUE) 

When to the dreary greenwood gloam 
Winfreda's husband strode that day, 

The fair Winfreda bode at home 
To toil the weary time away; 

"While thou are gone to hunt/' said she, 

"I '11 brew a goodly sop for thee." 

Lo, from a further, gloomy wood, 
A hungry wolf all bristling hied 

And on the cottage threshold stood 
And saw the dame at work inside; 

And, as he saw the pleasing sight, 

He licked his fangs so sharp and white. 

Now when Winfreda saw the beast, 
Straight at the grinning wolf she ran, 

And, not affrighted in the least, 
She hit him with her cooking pan, 

And as she thwacked him on the head — 

"Scat! scat!" the fair Winfreda said. 

The hills gave answer to their din — 
The brook in fear beheld the sight, 

And all that bloody field within 
Wore token of Winfreda's might. 

The wolf was very loath to stay — 

But, oh! he could not get away. 



LYMAN, FREDERICK, AND JIM 175 

Winfreda swept him o'er the wold 

And choked him till his gums were blue, 

And till, beneath her iron hold, 

His tongue hung out a yard or two, 

And with his hair the riven ground 

Was strewn for many leagues around. 

They fought a weary time that day, 

And seas of purple blood were shed, 
Till by Winfreda's cunning lay 

That awful wolf all limp and dead; 
Winfreda saw him reel and drop — 
Then back she went to brewing sop. 

So when the husband came at night 

From bootless chase, cold, gaunt, and grim, 

Great was that Saxon lord's delight 
To find the sop dished up for him; 

And as he ate, Winfreda told 

How she had laid the wolf out cold. 

The good Winfreda of those days 

Is only "pretty Birdie" now — 
Sickly her soul and weak her ways — 

And she, to whom we Saxons bow, 
Leaps on a bench and screams with fright 
If but a mouse creeps into sight. 



LYMAN, FREDERICK, AND JIM 

(for the fellowship club) 

Lyman and Frederick and Jim, one day, 

Set out in a great big ship — 
Steamed to the ocean adown the bay 

Out of a New York slip. 
"Where are you going and what is your game? 

The people asked those three. 



176 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

"Darned if we know; but all the same 
Happy as larks are we; 
And happier still we 're going to be!" 
Said Lyman 
And Frederick 
And Jim. 

The people laughed "Aha, oho! 

Oho, aha!" laughed they; 
And while those three went sailing so 

Some pirates steered that way. 
The pirates they were laughing, too — 

The prospect made them glad; 
But by the time the job was through 
Each of them pirates, bold and bad, 
Had been done out of all he had 
By Lyman 
And Frederick 
And Jim. 

Days and weeks and months they sped, 

Painting that foreign clime 
A beautiful, bright vermilion red — 

And having a of a time! 

'T was all so gaudy a lark, it seemed 

As if it could not be, 
And some folks thought it a dream they dreamed 
Of sailing that foreign sea, 
But I '11 identify you these three — 
Lyman 

And Frederick 
And Jim. 

Lyman and Frederick are bankers and sich 

And Jim is an editor kind; 
The first two named are awfully rich 

And Jim ain't far behind! 
So keep your eyes open and mind your tricks, 

Or you are like to be 
In quite as much of a Tartar fix 



BE MY SWEETHEART 177 

As the pirates that sailed the sea 

And monkeyed with the pardners three, 

Lyman 

And Frederick 

And Jim! 



BE MY SWEETHEART 

Sweetheart, be my sweetheart 
When birds are on the wing, 

When bee and bud and babbling flood 
Bespeak the birth of spring, 

Come, sweetheart, be my sweetheart 
And wear this posy-ring! 

Sweetheart, be my sweetheart 

In the mellow golden glow 
Of earth aflush with the gracious blush 

Which the ripening fields foreshow; 
Dear sweetheart, be my sweetheart, 

As into the noon we go! 

Sweetheart, be my sweetheart 
When falls the bounteous year, 

When fruit and wine of tree and vine 
Give us their harvest cheer; 

Oh, sweetheart, be my sweetheart, 
For winter it draweth near. 

Sweetheart, be my sweetheart 
When the year is white and old, 

When the fire of youth is spent, forsooth, 
And the hand of age is cold; 

Yet, sweetheart, be my sweetheart 
Till the year of our love be told! 



178 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 



THE PETER-BIRD 

Out of the woods by the creek cometh a calling for Peter, 

And from the orchard a voice echoes and echoes it over; 

Down in the pastui the sheep hear that strange crying for Peter, 

Over the meadows ti ! it call is aye and forever repeated. 

So let me tell you the fale, when, Avhere, and how it all happened, 

And, when the story is told, let us pay heed to the lesson. 

Once on a time, long ago, lived in the State of Kentucky 

One that was reckoned a witch — full of strange spells and devices; 

Nightly she wandered the woods, searching for . charms voodoo- 

istic — | 

Scorpions, lizards, and herbs, dormice, chameleons, and plantains! 
Serpents and caw-caws and bats, screech-owls and crickets and 

adders — 
These were the guides of that witch through the dank deeps of 

the forest. 
Then, with her roots and her herbs, back to her cave in the morning 
Ambled that hussy to brew spells of unspeakable evil; 
And, when the people awoke, seeing that hillside and valley 
Sweltered in swathes as of mist — "Look!" they would whisper in 

terror — 
"Look! the old witch is at work brewing her spells of great evil!" 
Then would they pray till the sun, darting his rays through the 

vapor, 
Lifted the smoke from the earth and baffled the witch's intentions. 

One of the boys at that time was a certain young person named 

Peter, 
Given too little to work, given too largely to dreaming; 
Fonder of books than of chores, you can imagine that Peter 
Led a sad life on the farm, causing his parents much trouble. 
"Peter!" his mother would call, "the cream is a'ready for 

churning!" 
"Peter!" his father would cry, "go grub at the weeds in the 

garden!" 
So it was "Peter!" all day — calling, reminding, and chiding — 
Peter neglected his work; therefore that nagging at Peter! 



THE PETER-BIRD 179 

Peter got hold of some books — how, I 'm unable to tell you; 
Some have suspected the witch — this is no plac for suspicions! 
It is sufficient to stick close to the thread of tl legend. 
Nor is it stated or guessed what was the trend of those volumes; 
What thing soever it was — done with a pen and a pencil, 
Wrought with a brain, not a hoe — surely 't was hostile to farming! 
" Fudge on all readin'!" they quoth; or "that's what's the ruin 
of Peter!" 

So, when the mornings were hot, under the beech or the maple, 
Cushioned in grass that was blue, breathing the breath of the blos- 
soms, 
Lulled by the hum of the bees, the coo of the ring-doves a-mating, 
Peter would frivol his time at reading, or lazing, or dreaming. 
''Peter!" his mother would call, "the cream is a' ready for 

churning!" 
"Peter!" his father would cry, "go grub at the weeds in the 

garden!" 
"Peter!" and "Peter!" all day — calling, reminding, and chiding — 
Peter neglected his chores; therefore that outcry for Peter; 
Therefore the neighbors allowed evil would surely befall him — 
Yes, on account of these things, ruin would come upon Peter! 

Surely enough, on a time, reading and lazing and dreaming 
Wrought the calamitous ill all had predicted for Peter; 
For, of a morning in spring when lay the mist in the valleys — 
"See," quoth the folk, "how the witch breweth her evil decoctions! 
See how the smoke from her fire broodeth on woodland and meadow! 
Grant that the sun cometh out to smother the smudge of her 

caldron ! 
She hath been forth in the night, full of her spells and devices, 
Roaming the marshes and dells for heathenish magical nostrums; 
Digging in leaves and at stumps for centipedes, pismires, and 

spiders, 
Grubbing in poisonous pools for hot salamanders and toadstools; 
Charming the bats from the flues, snaring the lizards by twilight, 
Sucking the scorpion's egg and milking the breast of the adder!" 

Peter derided these things held in such faith by the farmer, 
Scouted at magic and charms, hooted at Jonahs and hoodoos — 



180 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

Thinking and reading of books must have unsettled his reason! 
"There ain't no witches," he cried; "it is n't smoky, but foggy! 
I will go out in the wet — you all can't hender me, nuther!" 

Surely enough he went out into the damp of the morning, 
Into the smudge that the witch spread over woodland and meadow, 
Into the fleecy gray pall brooding on hillside and valley. 
Laughing and scoffing, he strode into that hideous vapor; 
Just as he said he would do, just as he bantered and threatened, 
Ere they could fasten the door, Peter had done gone and done it! 
Wasting his time over books, you see, had unsettled his reason — 
Soddened his callow young brain with semipubescent paresis, 
And his neglect of his chores hastened this evil condition. 

Out of the woods by the creek cometh a calling for Peter 
And from the orchard a voice echoes and echoes it over; 
Down in the pasture the sheep hear that shrill crying for Peter, 
Up from the spring house the wail stealeth anon like a whisper, 
Over the meadows that call is aye and for ever repeated. 
Such were the voices that whooped wildly and vainly for Peter 
Decades and decades ago down in the State of Kentucky — 
Such are the voices that cry now from the woodland and meadow, 
" Peter — O Peter!" all day, calling, reminding, and chiding— 
Taking us back to the time when Peter he done gone and done it! 
These are the voices of those left by the boy in the farmhouse 
When, with his laughter and scorn, hatless and bootless and 

sockless, 
Clothed in his jeans and his pride, Peter sailed out in the weather, 
Broke from the warmth of his home into that fog of the devil, 
Into the smoke of that witch brewing her damnable porridge! 

Lo, when he vanished from sight, knowing the evil that threatened, 
Forth with importunate cries hastened his father and mother. 
"Peter!" they shrieked in alarm, "Peter!" and evermore 

"Peter!"— 
Ran from the house to the barn, ran from the barn to the garden, 
Ran to the corn-crib anon, then to the smoke-house proceeded; 
Henhouse and woodpile they passed, calling and wailing and 

weeping, 
Through the front gate to the road, braving the hideous vapor — 



THE PETER-BIRD 181 

Sought him in lane and on pike, called him in orchard and meadow, 

Clamoring "Peter!" in vain, vainly outcrying for Peter. 

Joining the search came the rest, brothers and sisters and cousins, 

Venting unspeakable fears in pitiful wailing for Peter! 

And from the neighboring farms gathered the men and the women, 

Who, upon hearing the news, swelled the loud chorus for Peter. 

Farmers and hussifs and maids, bosses and field-hands and niggers, 
Colonels and jedges galore from cornfields and mint-beds and 

thickets, 
All that had voices to voice, all to those parts appertaining, 
Came to engage in the search, gathered and bellowed for Peter. 
The Taylors, the Dorseys, the Browns, the Wallers, the Mitchells, 

the Logans, 
The Yenowines, Crittendens, Dukes, the Hickmans, the Hobbses, 

the Morgans; 
The Ormsbys, the Thompsons, the Hikes, the Williamsons, Mur- 

rays, and Hardins, 
The Beynroths, the Sherleys, the Hokes, the Haldermans, Harneys, 

and Slaughters — 
All, famed in Kentucky of old for prowess prodigious at farming, 
Now surged from their prosperous homes to join in that hunt for 

the truant, 
To ascertain where he was at, to help out the chorus for Peter. 

Still on those prosperous farms where heirs and assigns of the 

people 
Specified hereinabove and proved by the records of probate — 
Still on those farms shall you hear (and still on the turnpikes ad- 
jacent) 
That pitiful, petulant call, that pleading, expostulant wailing, 
That hopeless, monotonous moan, that crooning and droning for 

Peter. 
Some say the witch in her wrath transmogrified all those good 

people; 
That, wakened from slumber that day by the calling and bawling 

for Peter, 
She out of her cave in a trice, and, waving the foot of a rabbit 
(Crossed with the caul of a coon and smeared with the blood of a 
chicken), 



182 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

She changed all those folk into birds and shrieked with demoniac 

venom : 
"Fly away over the land, moaning your Peter forever, 
Croaking of Peter, the boy who did n't believe there were hoodoos, 
Crooning of Peter, the fool who scouted at stories of witches, 
Crying of Peter for aye, forever outcalling for Peter!" 

This is the story they tell; so in good sooth saith the legend; 
As I have told it to you, so tell the folk and the legend. 
That it is true I believe, for on the breezes this morning 
Come the shrill voices of birds calling and calling for Peter; 
Out of the maple and beech glitter the eyes of the wailers, 
Peeping and peering for him who formerly lived in these places — 
Peter, the heretic lad, lazy and careless and dreaming, 
Sorely afflicted with books and with pubescent paresis, 
Hating the things of the farm, care of the barn and the garden, 
Always neglecting his chores — given to books and to reading, 
Which, as all people allow, turn the young person to mischief, 
Harden his heart against toil, wean his affections from tillage. 

This is the legend of yore told. in the state of Kentucky 
When in the springtime the birds call from the beeches and maples, 
Call from the petulant thorn, call from the acrid persimmon; 
When from the woods by the creek and from the pastures and 

meadows, 
When from the spring house and lane and from the mint-bed and 

orchard, 
When from the redbud and gum and from the redolent lilac, 
When from the dirt roads and pikes cometh that calling for Peter; 
Cometh the dolorous cry, cometh that weird iteration 
Of "Peter" and "Peter" for aye, of "Peter" and "Peter" forever! 
This is the legend of old, told in the tumtitty metre 
Which the great poets prefer, being less labor than rhyming 
(My first attempt at the same, my last attempt, too, I reckon!); 
Nor have I further to say, for the sad story is ended. 



sister's cake 183 



SISTER'S CAKE 

I 'd not complain of Sister Jane, for she was good and kind, 
Combining with rare comeliness distinctive gifts of mind; 
Nay, I '11 admit it were most fit that, worn by social cares, 
She 'd crave a change from parlor life to that below the stairs, 
And that, eschewing needlework and music, she should take 
Herself to the substantial art of manufacturing cake. 

At breakfast, then, it would befall that Sister Jane would say: 
"Mother, if you have got the things, I '11 make some cake to-day!" 
Poor mother 'd cast a timid glance at father, like as not — 
For father hinted sister's cooking cost a frightful lot — ■ 
But neither she nor he presumed to signify dissent, 
Accepting it for gospel truth that what she wanted went! 

No matter what the rest of 'em might chance to have in hand, 

The whole machinery of the house came to a sudden stand; 

The pots were hustled off the stove, the fire built up anew, 

With every damper set just so to heat the oven through; 

The kitchen-table was relieved of everything, to make 

That ample space which Jane required when she compounded cake. 

And, oh! the bustling here and there, the flying to and fro; 
The click of forks that whipped the eggs to lather white as snow — 
And what a wealth of sugar melted swiftly out of sight — 
And butter? Mother said such waste would ruin father, quite! 
But Sister Jane preserved a mien no pleading could confound 
As she utilized the raisins and the citron by the pound. 

Oh, hours of chaos, tumult, heat, vexatious din, and whirl! 

Of deep humiliation for the sullen hired-girl; 

Of grief for mother, hating to see things wasted so, 

And of fortune for that little boy who pined to taste that dough! 

It looked so sweet and yellow — sure, to taste it were no sin — 

But, oh! how sister scolded if he stuck his finger in! 

The chances were as ten to one, before the job was through, 
That sister 'd think of something else she 'd great deal rather do! 



184 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

So, then, she 'd softly steal away, as Arabs in the night, 
Leaving the girl and ma to finish up as best they might; 
These tactics (artful Sister Jane) enabled her to take 
Or shift the credit or the blame of that too-treacherous cake! 

And yet, unhappy is the man who has no Sister Jane — 

For he who has no sister seems to me -to live in vain. 

I never had a sister — maybe that is why to-day 

I 'm wizened and dyspeptic, instead of blithe and gay; 

A boy who 's only forty should be full of romp and mirth, 

But / (because I 'm sisterless) am the oldest man on earth! 

Had I a little sister — oh, how happy I should be! 

I 'd never let her cast her eyes on any chap but me; 

I 'd love her and I 'd cherish her for better and for worse — 

I 'd buy her gowns and bonnets, and sing her praise in verse; 

And — yes, what 's more and vastly more — I tell you what I 'd do; 

I 'd let her make her wondrous cake, and I would eat it, too! 

I have a high opinion of the sisters, as you see — 

Another fellow's sister is so very dear to me! 

I love to work anear her when she 's making over frocks, 

When she patches little trousers or darns prosaic socks; 

But I draw the line at one thing — yes, I don my hat and take 

A three hours' walk when she is moved to try her hand at cake! 



ABU MIDJAN 

"When Father Time swings round his. scythe, 
Intomb me 'neath the bounteous vine, 

So that its juices, red and blithe, 

May cheer these thirsty bones of mine. 

" Elsewise with tears and bated breath 

Shoidd I survey the life to be. 
But oh! How should I hail the death 

That brings that vinous grace to me!" 



ED 185 



So sung the dauntless Saracen, 

Whereat the Prophet-Chief ordains 

That, curst of Allah, loathed of men, 
The faithless one shall die in chains. 

But one vile Christian slave that lay 
A prisoner near that prisoner saith: 

"God willing, I will plant some day 
A vine where liest thou in death." 

Lo, over Abu Midjan's grave 

With purpling fruit a vine-tree grows; 
Where rots the martyred Christian slave 

Allah, and only Allah, knows! 



ED 

Ed was a man that played for keeps, 'nd when he tuk the notion, 
You cudn't stop him any more 'n a dam 'ud stop the ocean; 
For when he tackled to a thing 'nd sot his mind plum to it, 
You bet yer boots he done that thing though it broke the bank to 

do it! 
So all us boys uz knowed him best allowed he wuz n't jokin' 
When on a Sunday he remarked uz how he 'd gin up smokin'. 

Now this remark, that Ed let fall, fell, ez I say, on Sunday — 

Which is the reason we wuz shocked to see him sail in Monday 

A-puffin' at a snipe that sizzled like a Chinese cracker 

An' smelt fur all the world like rags instead uv like terbacker; 

Recoverin' from our first surprise, us fellows fell to pokin' 

A heap uv fun at "folks uz said how they had gin up smokin'." 

But Ed — sez he: "I found my work cud not be done without it — 

Jes' try the scheme yourselves, my friends, ef any uv you doubt it! 

It 's hard, I know, upon one's health, but there 's a certain beauty 

In makin' sackerfices to the stern demands uv duty! 

So, wholly in a sperrit uv denial 'nd concession, 

I mortify the flesh 'nd smoke for the sake uv my perfession!" 



186 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 



JENNIE 



Some men affect a liking 

For the prim in face and mind, 
And some prefer the striking 

And the loud in womankind; 
Wee Madge is wooed of many, 

And buxom Kate, as well, 
And Jennie — charming Jennie — 

Ah, Jennie doesn't tell! 

What eyes so bright as Daisy's, 

And who as Maud so fair? 
Who does not sing the praises 

Of Lucy's golden hair? 
There 's Sophie — she is witty, 

A very sprite is Nell, 
And Susie's, oh, so pretty — 

But Jennie doesn't tell! 

And now for my confession: 

Of all the virtues rare, 
I argue that discretion 

Doth most beseem the fair. 
And though I hear the many 

Extol each other belle, 
I — I pronounce for Jennie, 

For Jennie doesn't tell! 



CONTENTMENT 

Happy the man that, when his day is done, 
Lies down to sleep with nothing of regret — 

The battle he has fought may not be won — 
The fame he sought be just as fleeting yet; 



"guess" 187 

Folding at last his hands upon his breast, 

Happy is he, if hoary and forespent, 
He sinks into the last, eternal rest, 

Breathing these only words: "I am content." 



But happier he, that, while his blood is warm, 

Sees hopes and friendships dead about him li 
Bares his brave breast to envy's bitter storm, 

Nor shuns the poison barbs of calumny; 
And 'mid it all, stands sturdy and elate, 

Girt only in the armor God hath meant 
For him who 'neath the bufferings of fate 

Can say to God and man: "I am content." 



"GUESS" 



There is a certain Yankee phrase 

I always have revered, 
Yet, somehow, in these modern days, 

It 's almost disappeared; 
It was the usage years ago, 

But nowadays it 's got 
To be regarded coarse and low 

To answer: "I guess not!" 

The height of fashion called the pink 

Affects a British craze — 
Prefers "I fancy" or "I think" 

To that time-honored phrase; 
But here's a Yankee, if you please, 

That brands the fashion rot, 
And to all heresies like these 

He answers, "I — guess not!" — 

When Chaucer, Wycliff, and the rest 
Express their meaning thus, 

I guess, if not the very best, 
It 's good enough for us ! 



188 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

Why! shall the idioms of our speech 
Be banished and forgot 

For this vain trash which moderns teach? 
Well, no, sir; I guess not! 

There 's meaning in that homely phrase 

No other words express — 
No substitute therefor conveys 

Such unobtrusive stress. 
True Anglo-Saxon speech, it goes 

Directly to the spot, 
And he who hears it always knows 

The worth of "I — guess — not!" 



NEW-YEAR'S EVE 

Good old days — dear old days 

When my heart beat high and bold — 
When the things of earth seemed full of life, 

And the future a haze of gold! 
Oh, merry was I that winter night, 

And gleeful our little one's din, 
And tender the grace of my darling's face 

As we watched the new year in. 
But a voice — a spectre's, that mocked at love — 

Came out of the yonder hall; 
"Tick-tock, tick-tock!" 't was the solemn clock 

That ruefully croaked to all. 
Yet what knew we of the griefs to be 

In the year we longed to greet? 
Love — love was the theme of the sweet, sweet dream 

I fancied might never fleet! 
But the spectre stood in that yonder gloom, 

And these were the words it spake, 
"Tick-tock, tick-tock" — and they seemed to mock 

A heart about to break. 



. THE BROKEN RING 189 

'T is new-year's eve, and again I watch 

In the old familiar place, 
And I 'm thinking again of that old time when 

I looked on a dear one's face. 
Never a little one hugs my knee 

And I hear no gleeful shout — 
I am sitting alone by the old hearthstone, 

Watching the old year out. 
But I welcome the voice in yonder gloom 

That solemnly calls to me: 
"Tick-tock, tick-tock!" —for so the clock 

Tells of a life to be; 
"Tick-tock, tick-tock!" — 't is so the clock 

Tells of eternity. 



THE BROKEN RING 

To the willows of the brookside 
The mill wheel sings to-day — 
Sings and weeps, 
As the brooklet creeps 
Wondering on its way; 
And here is the ring she gave me 
'With love's sweet promise then — 
It hath burst apart 
Like the trusting heart 
That may never be soothed again! 

Oh, I would be a minstrel 

To wander far and wide, 
Weaving in song the merciless wrong 

Done by a perjured bride! 
Or I would be a soldier, 

To seek in the bloody fray 
What gifts of fate can compensate 

For the pangs I suffer to-day! 
Yet may this aching bosom, 

By bitter sorrow crushed, 



190 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

Be still and cold 
In the churchyard mould 
Ere thy sweet voice be hushed: 
So sing, sing on forever, 

wheel of the brookside mill, 
For you mind me again 

Of the old time when 

1 felt love's gracious thrill. 



THE BALLAD OF THE TAYLOR PUP 

Now lithe and listen, gentles all, 
Now lithe ye all and hark 

Unto a ballad I shall sing 
About Buena Park. 

Of all the wonders happening there 
The strangest hap befell 

Upon a famous Aprile morn, 
As I you now shall tell. 

It is about the Taylor pup 
And of his mistress eke 

And of the prankish time they had 
That I am fain to speak. 

FITTE THE FIRST 

The pup was of as noble mien 
As e'er you gazed upon; 

They called his mother Lady 
And his father was a Don. 

And both his mother and his sire 
Were of the race Bernard — 

The family famed in histories 
And hymned of every bard. 



THE BALLAD OF THE TAYLOR PUP 191 

His form was of exuberant mould, 

Long, slim, and loose of joints; 
There never yet was pointer-dog 

So full as he of points. 

His hair was like to yellow fleece, 

His eyes were black and kind, 
And like a nodding, gilded plume 

His tail stuck up behind. 

His bark was very, very fierce, 

And fierce his appetite, 
Yet was it only things to eat 

That he was prone to bite. 

But in that one particular 

He was so passing true 
That never did he quit a meal 

Until he had got through. 

Potatoes, biscuits, mush, or hash, 
Joint, chop, or chicken limb — 
So long as it was edible, 
'T was all the same to him! 

And frequently when Hunger's pangs 

Assailed that callow pup, 
He masticated boots and gloves 

Or chewed a door-mat up. 

So was he much beholden of 

The folk that him did keep; 
They loved him when he was awake 

And better still asleep. 

FITTE THE SECOND 

Now once his master, lingering o'er 

His breakfast coffee-cup, 
Observed unto his doting spouse: 

"You ought to wash the pup!" 



192 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

"That shall I do this very day," 
His doting spouse replied; 

"You will not know the pretty thing 
When he is washed and dried. 

"But tell me, dear, before you go 

Unto your daily work, 
Shall I use Ivory soap on him, 

Or Colgate, Pears' or Kirk?" 

"Odzooks, it matters not a whit — 
They all are good to use! 

Take Pearline, if it pleases you — 
Sapolio, if you choose.' 

. "Take any soap, but take the pup 
And also water take, 
And mix the three discreetly up 
Till they a lather make. 

"Then mixing these constituent parts, 
Let Nature take her way," 

With which advice that sapient sir 
Had nothing more to say. 

Then fared he to his daily toil 
All in the Board of Trade, 

While Mistress Taylor for that bath 
Due preparation made. 

FITTE THE THIRD 

She whistled gayly to the pup 
And called him by his name, 

And presently the guileless thing 
All unsuspecting came. 

But when she shut the bath-room door, 
And caught him as catch-can, 

And hove him in that odious tub, 
His sorrows then began. 



THE BALLAD OF THE TAYLOR PUP 193 

How did that callow, yallow thing 

Regret that Aprile morn — 
Alas! how bitterly he rued 

The day that he was born! 

Twice and again, but all in vain, 

He lifted up his wail; 
His voice was all the pup could lift, 

For thereby hangs this tale. 

'T was by that tail she held him down, 

And presently she spread 
The creamy lather on his back, 

His stomach, and his head. 

His ears hung down in sorry wise, 

His eyes were, oh! so sad — 
He looked as though he just had lost 

The only friend he had. 

And higher yet the water rose, 

The lather still increased, 
And sadder still the countenance 

Of that poor martyred beast! 

Yet all the time his mistress spoke 

Such artful words of cheer 
As "Oh, how nice!" and "Oh, how clean!" 

And "There 's a patient dear!" 

At last the trial had an end, 

At last the pup was free; 
She threw aside the bath-room door — 

"Now get you gone!" quoth she. 

FITTE THE FOURTH 

Then from that tub and from that room 

He gat with vast ado; 
At every hop he gave a shake, 

And — how the water flew! 



194 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

He paddled down the winding stairs 

And to the parlor hied, 
Dispensing pools of foamy suds 

And slop on every side. 

Upon the carpet then he rolled 
And brushed against the wall, 

And, horror! whisked his lathery sides 
On overcoat and shawl. 

Attracted by the dreadful din, 
His mistress came below — 

Who, who can speak her wonderment — 
Who, who can paint her woe! 

Great smears of soap were here and there- 

Her startled vision met 
With blobs of lather everywhere, 

And everything was wet! 

Then Mrs. Taylor gave a shriek 

Like one about to die: 
"Get out — get out, and don't you dare 

Come in till you are dry!" 

W T ith that she opened wide the door 
And waved the critter through; 

Out in the circumambient air 
With grateful yelps he flew. 

FITTE THE FIFTH 

He whisked into the dusty street 

And to the Waller lot, 
W T here bonnie Annie Evans played 

W 7 ith charming Sissy Knott. 

And with those pretty little dears 
He mixed himself all up — 

Oh, fie upon such boisterous play — ■ 
Fie, fie, you naughty pup! 



THE BALLAD OF THE TAYLOR PUP 195 

Woe, woe on Annie's India mull, 

And Sissy's blue percale! 
One got that pup's belathered flanks, 

And one his soapy tail! 

Forth to the rescue of those maids 

Rushed gallant Willie Clow; 
His panties they were white and clean — 

Where are those panties now? 

Where is the nicely laundered shirt 

That Kendall Evans wore, 
And Robbie James's tricot coat 

All buttoned up before? 

The leaven, which, as we are told, 

Leavens a monstrous lump, 
Hath far less reaching qualities 

Than a wet pup on the jump. 

This way and that he swung and swayed, 

He gambolled far and near, 
And everywhere he thrust himself 

He left a soapy smear. 

FITTE THE SIXTH 

That noon a dozen little dears 

W T ere spanked and put to bed 
With naught to stay their appetites 

But cheerless crusts of bread. 

That noon a dozen hired girls 

Washed out each gown and shirt 
Which that exuberant Taylor pup 

Had frescoed o'er with dirt. 

That whole day long the Aprile sun 

Smiled sweetly from above 
On clotheslines flaunting to the breeze 

The emblems mothers love. 



196 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

That whole day long the Taylor pup 
This way and that did hie 

Upon his mad, erratic course, 
Intent on getting dry. 

That night when Mr. Taylor came 
His vesper meal to eat, 

He uttered things my pious pen 
Would liefer not repeat. 

Yet still that noble Taylor pup 
Survives to romp and bark 

And stumble over folks and things 
In fair Buena Park. 

Good sooth, I wot he should be called 

Buena's favorite son 
Who 's sired of such a noble sire 

And dammed by every one! 



AFTER READING TROLLOPE'S HISTORY OF 
FLORENCE 

My books are on their shelves again 
And clouds lie low with mist and rain. 
Afar the Arno murmurs low 
The tale of fields of melting snow. 
List to the bells of times agone 
The while I wait me for the dawn. 

Beneath great Giotto's Campanile 

The gray ghosts throng; their whispers steal 

From poets' bosoms long since dust; 

They ask me now to go. I trust 

Their fleeter footsteps where again 

They come at night and live as men. 

The rain falls on Ghiberti's gates; 
The big drops hang on purple dates; 



AFTER READING TROLLOPE's HISTORY OF FLORENCE 197 

And yet beneath the ilex-shades — 
Dear trysting-place for boys and maids — 
There comes a form from days of old, 
With Beatrice's hair of gold. 

The breath of lands or lilied streams 

Floats through the fabric of my dreams; 

And yonder from the hills of song, 

Where psalmists brood and prophets throng, 

The lone, majestic Dante leads 

His love across the blooming meads. 

Along the almond walks I tread 
And greet the figures of the dead. 
Mirandula walks here with him 
Who lived with gods and seraphim; 
Yet where Colonna's fair feet go 
There passes Michael Angelo. 

In Rome or Florence, still with her 
Stands lone and grand her worshipper. 
In Leonardo's brain there move 
Christ and the children of His love; 
And Raphael is touching now, 
For the last time, an angel's brow. 

Angelico is praying yet 
Where lives no pang of man's regret, 
And, mixing tears and prayers within 
His palette's wealth, absolved from sin, 
He dips his brush in hues divine; 
San Marco's angel faces shine. 

Within Lorenzo's garden green, 
Where olives hide their boughs between, 
The lovers, as they read betimes 
Their love within Petrarca's lines, 
Stand near the marbles found at Rome, 
Lost shades that search in vain for home. 



198 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

They pace the paths along the stream, 

Dark Vallombrosa in their dream. 

They sing, amidst the rain-drenched pines, 

Of Tuscan gold that ruddier shines 

Behind a saint's auroral face 

That shows e'en yet the master's trace. 

But lo, within the walls of gray, 

Ere yet there falls a glint of day, 

And far without, from hill to vale, 

Where honey-hearted nightingale 

Or meads of pale anemones 

Make sweet the coming morning breeze — 

I hear a voice, of prophet tone, 
A voice of doom, like his alone 
That once in Gadara was heard; 
The old walls trembled — lo, the bird 
Has ceased to sing, and yonder waits 
Lorenzo at his palace gates. 

Some Romola in passing by 
Turns toward the ruler, and his sigh 
Wanders amidst the myrtle bowers 
Or o'er the city's mantled towers, 
For she is Florence! "Wilt thou hear 
San Marco's prophet? Doom is near." 

"Her liberties," he cries, "restore! 
This much for Florence — yea, and more 
To men and God!" The days are gone; 
And in an hour of perfect dawn 
I stand beneath the cypress trees 
That shiver still with words like these. 



199 



"THE OLD HOMESTEAD" 

Jest as atween the awk'ard lines a hand we love has penn'd 

Appears a meanin' hid from other eyes, 
So, in your simple, homespun art, old honest Yankee friend, 

A power o' tearful, sweet seggestion lies. 
We see it all — the pictur' that our mem'ries hold so dear — 

The homestead in New England far away, 
An' the vision is so nat'ral-like we almost seem to hear 

The voices that were heshed but yesterday. 

Ah, who 'd ha' thought the music of that distant childhood time 

Would sleep through all the changeful, bitter years 
To waken into melodies like Chris'mas bells a-chime 

An' to claim the ready tribute of our tears! 
Why, the robins in the maples an' the blackbirds round the pond, 

The crickets an' the locusts in the leaves, 
The brook that chased the trout adown the hillside just beyond, 

An* the swallers in their nests beneath the eaves — - 
They all come troopin' back with you, dear Uncle Josh, to-day, 

An' they seem to sing with all the joyous zest 
Of the days when we were Yankee boys an' Yankee girls at play, 

With nary thought of "livin' way out West"! 

God bless ye, Denman Thomps'n, for the good y' do our hearts 

With this music an' these memories o' youth — 
God bless ye for the faculty that tops all human arts, 

The good ol' Yankee faculty of Truth! 



THE CONVALESCENT GRIPSTER 

The gods let slip that fiendish grip 
Upon me last week Sunday — 

No fiercer storm than racked my form 
E'er swept the Bay of Fundy; 



200 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

But now, good-by 
To drugs, say I — 

Good-by to gnawing sorrow; 
I am up to-day, 
And, whoop, hooray! 

I 'm going out to-morrow! 

What aches and pain in bones and brain 

I had I need not mention; 
It seemed to me such pangs must be 

Old Satan's own invention; 
Albeit I 
Was sure I 'd die, 

The doctor reassured me — 
And, true enough, 
With his vile stuff, 

He ultimately cured me. 

As there I lay in bed all day, 

How fair outside looked to me! 
A smile so mild old Nature smiled 

It seemed to warm clean through me. 
In chastened mood 
The scene I viewed, 

Inventing, sadly solus, 
Fantastic rhymes 
Between the times 

I had to take a bolus. 

Of quinine slugs and other drugs 

I guess I took a million — 
Such drugs as serve to set each nerve 

To dancing a cotillon; 
The doctors say 
The only way 

To rout the grip instanter 
Is to pour in 
All kinds of sin — 

Similibus curantur! 



THE SLEEPING CHILD 201 

'T was hard; and yet I '11 soon forget 

Those ills and cures distressing; 
One's future lies 'neath gorgeous skies 

When one is convalescing! 
So now, good-by 
To drugs say I — 

Good-by, thou phantom Sorrow! 
I am up to-day, 
And, whoop, hooray! 

I 'm going out to-morrow. 



THE SLEEPING CHILD 

My baby slept — how calm his rest, 
As o'er his handsome face a smile 
Like that of angel flitted, while 

He lay so still upon my breast! 

My baby slept — his baby head 

Lay all unkiss'd 'neath pall and shroud: 
I did not weep or cry aloud — 

I only wished I, too, were dead! 

My baby sleeps — a tiny mound, 
All covered by the little flowers, 
Woos me in all my waking hours, 

Down in the quiet burying-ground. 

And when I sleep I seem to be 

With baby in another land — 

I take his little baby hand — 
He smiles and sings sweet songs to me. 

Sleep on, O baby, while I keep 
My vigils till this day be passed! 
Then shall I, too, lie down at last, 

And with my baby darling sleep. 



202 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 



THE TWO COFFINS 



In yonder old cathedral 

Two lovely coffins lie; 
I r . one, the head of the state lies dead, 

And a singer sleeps hard by. 

Once had that King great power 

And proudly ruled the land — 
His crown e'en now is on his brow 

And his sword is in his hand. 

How sweetly sleeps the singer 

With calmly folded eyes, 
And on the breast of the bard at rest 

The harp that he sounded lies. 

The castle walls are falling 

And war distracts the land, 
But the sword leaps not from that mildewed spot 

There in that dead king's hand. 

But with every grace of nature 

There seems to float along — 
To cheer again the hearts of men — 

The singer's deathless song. 



CLARE MARKET 

In the market of Clare, so cheery the glare 

Of the shops and the booths of the tradespeople there; 

That I take a delight on a Saturday night 

In walking that way and in viewing the sight. 

For it 's here that one sees all the objects that please — 

New patterns in silk and old patterns in cheese, 



CLARE MARKET 203 

For the girls pretty toys, rude alarums for boys, 
And baubles galore while discretion enjoys — 
But here I forbear, for I really despair 
Of naming the wealth of the market of Clare. 

A rich man comes down from the elegant town 
And looks at it all with an ominous frown; 
He seems to despise the grandiloquent cries 
Of the vender proclaiming his puddings and pies; 
And sniffing he goes through the lanes that disclose 
Much cause for disgust to his sensitive nose; 
And free of the crowd, he admits he is proud 
That elsewhere in London this thing 's not allowed; 
He has seen nothing there but filth everywhere, 
And he 's glad to get out of the market of Clare. 

But the child that has come from the gloom of the slum 

Is charmed by the magic of dazzle and hum; 

He feasts his big eyes on the cakes and the pies, 

And they seem to grow green and protrude with surprise 

At the goodies they vend and the toys without end — 

And it 's oh! if he had but a penny to spend! 

But alas, he must gaze in a hopeless amaze 

At treasures that glitter and torches that blaze — 

What sense of despair in this world can compare 

With that of the waif in the market of Clare? 

So, on Saturday night, when my custom invites 

A stroll in old London for curious sights, 

I am likely to stray by a devious way 

W^here goodies are spread in a motley array, 

The things which some eyes would appear to despise 

Impress me as pathos in homely disguise, 

And my battered waif -friend shall have pennies to spend, 

So long as I 've got 'em (or chums that will lend); 

And the urchin shall share in my joy and declare 

That there 's beauty and good in the market of Clare. 



204 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 



A DREAM OF SPRINGTIME 

I 'm weary of this weather and I hanker for the ways 

Which people read of in the psalms and preachers paraphrase — 

The grassy fields, the leafy woods, the banks where I can lie 

And listen to the music of the brook that flutters by, 

Or, by the pond out yonder, hear the redwing blackbird's call 

Where he makes believe he has a nest, but has n't one at all; 

And by my side should be a friend — a trusty, genial friend, 

With plenteous store of tales galore and natural leaf to lend; 

Oh, how I pine and hanker for the gracious boon of spring — 

For then I 'm going a-fishing with John Lyle King! 

How like to pigmies will appear creation, as we float 

Upon the bosom of the tide in a three-by-thirteen boat — 

Forgotten all vexations and all vanities shall be, 

As we cast our cares to windward and our anchor to the lee; 

Anon the minnow-bucket will emit batrachian sobs, 

And the devil's darning-needles shall come wooing of our bobs; 

The sun shall kiss our noses and the breezes toss our hair 

(This latter metaphoric — we 've no fimbriae to spare!); 

And I — transported by the bliss — shan't do a plaguey thing 

But cut the bait and string the fish for John Lyle King! 

Or, if I angle, it will be for bullheads and the like, 

While he shall fish for gamey bass, for pickerel, and for pike; 

I really do not care a rap for all the fish that swim — 

But it 's worth the wealth of Indies just to be along with him 

In grassy fields, in leafy woods, beside the water-brooks, 

And hear him tell of things he 's seen or read of in his books — 

To hear the sweet philosophy that trickles in and out 

The while he is discoursing of the things we talk about; 

A fountain-head refreshing — a clear, perennial spring 

Is the genial conversation of John Lyle King! 

Should varying winds or shifting tides redound to our despite — 
In other words, should we return all bootless home at night, 
I 'd back him up in anything he had a mind to say 
Of mighty bass he 'd left behind or lost upon the way; 



A DREAM OF SPRINGTIME 205 

I 'd nod assent to every yarn involving piscine game — 
I 'd cross my heart and make my affidavit to the same; 
For what is friendship but a scheme to help a fellow out — 
And what a paltry fish or two to make such bones about! 
Nay, Sentiment a mantle of sweet charity would fling 
O'er perjuries committed for John Lyle King. 

At night, when as the camp-fire cast a ruddy, genial flame, 
He 'd bring his tuneful fiddle out and play upon the same; 
No diabolic engine this — no instrument of sin — 
No relative at all to that lewd toy, the violin! 
But a godly hoosier fiddle — a quaint archaic thing 
Full of all the proper melodies our grandmas used to sing; 
With "Bonnie Doon," and "Nellie Gray," and "Sitting on the Stile," 
"The Heart Bowed Down," the "White Cockade," and "Charm- 
ing Annie Lisle" 
Our hearts would echo and the sombre empyrean ring 
Beneath the wizard sorcery of John Lyle King. 

The subsequent proceedings should interest me no more — 

Wrapped in a woolen blanket should I calmly dream and snore; 

The finny game that swims by day is my supreme delight — 

And not the scaly game that flies in darkness of the night ! 

Let those who are so minded pursue this latter game 

But not repine if they should lose a boodle in the same; 

For an example to you all one paragon should serve — 

He towers a very monument to valor and to nerve; 

No bob- tail flush, no nine-spot high, no measly pair can wring 

A groan of desperation from John Lyle King! 

A truce to badinage — I hope far distant is the day 

When from these scenes terrestrial our friend shall pass away! 

We like to hear his cheery voice uplifted in the land, 

To see his calm, benignant face, to grasp his honest hand; 

We like him for his learning, his sincerity, his truth, 

His gallantry to woman and his kindliness to youth, 

For the lenience of his nature, for the vigor of his mind, 

For the fulness of that charity he bears to all mankind — 

That 's why we folks who know him best so reverently cling 

(And that is why I pen these lines) to John Lyle King. 



206 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

And now adieu, a fond adieu to thee, O muse of rhyme — 
I do remand thee to the shades until that happier time 
When fields are green, and posies gay are budding everywhere, 
And there 's a smell of clover bloom upon the vernal air; 
When by the pond out yonder the redwing blackbird calls, 
And distant hills are wed to Spring in veils of water-falls; 
When from his aqueous element the famished pickerel springs 
Two hundred feet into the air for butterflies and things — 
Then come again, O gracious muse, and teach me how to sing 
The glory of a fishing cruise with John Lyle King! 



HOW SALTY WIN OUT 

Used to think that luck wuz luck and nuthin' else but luck — ■ 
It made no difFrence how or when or where or why it struck; 
But sev'ral years ago I changt my mind, an' now proclaim 
That luck 's a kind uv science — same as any other game; 
It happened out in Denver in the spring uv '80 when 
Salty teched a humpback an' win out ten. 

Salty wuz a printer in the good oP Tribune days, 

An', natural-like, he fell into the good ol' Tribune ways; 

So, every Sunday evenin' he would sit into the game 

Which in this crowd uv thoroughbreds I think I need not name; 

An' there he 'd sit until he rose, an', when he rose, he wore 

Invariably less wealth about his person than before. 

But once there came a powerful change; one solium Sunday night 

Occurred the tidal wave that put ol' Salty out o' sight. 

He win on deuce an' ace an' Jack — he win on king an' queen — 

Clif Bell allowed the like uv how he win wuz never seen. 

An' how he done it wuz revealed to all us fellers when 

He said he teched a humpback to win out ten. 

There must be somethin' in it, for he never win afore, 

An' when he told the crowd about the humpback, how they 

swore ! 



BOCCACCIO 207 

For every sport allows it is a losin' game to luck 
Agin the science uv a man who 's teched a hump f r luck; 
And there is no denyin' luck wuz nowhere in it when 
Salty teched a humpback an' win out ten. 

I 've had queer dreams an' seen queer things, an' alius tried to 

do 
The thing that luck apparently intended f'r me to; 
Cats, funerils, cripples, beggers have I treated with regard, 
An' charity subscriptions have hit me powerful hard; 
But what 's the use uv talkin' ? I say, an' say again: 
You 've got to tech a humpback to win out. ten! 

So, though I used to think that luck wuz lucky, I '11 allow 
That luck, for luck, agin a hump ain't nowhere in it now! 
An' though I can't explain the whys an' wherefores, I maintain 
There must be somethin' in it when the tip 's so straight an' plain; 
For I wuz there an' seen it, an' got full with Salty when 
Salty teched a humpback an' win out ten! 



BOCCACCIO 

LOVE AFFAIRS OF A BIBLIOMANIAC 

One day upon a topmost shelf 

I found a precious prize indeed, 
Which father used to read himself, 

But did not want us boys to read; 
A brown old book of certain age 

(As type and binding seemed to show), 
While on the spotted title-page 

Appeared the name " Boccaccio." 

I 'd never heard that name before, 

But in due season it became 
To him who fondly brooded o'er 
Those pages a beloved name! 



208 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

* Adown the centuries I walked 

Mid pastoral scenes and royal show; 
With seigneurs and their dames I talked — 
The crony of Boccaccio! 

Those courtly knights and sprightly maids, 

Who really seemed disposed to shine 
In gallantries and escapades, 

Anon became great friends of mine. 
Yet was there sentiment with fun, 

And oftentimes my tears would flow 
At some quaint tale of valor done, 

As told by my Boccaccio. • 

In boyish dreams I saw again 

Bucolic belles and dames of court, 
The princely youths and monkish men 

Arrayed for sacrifice or sport. 
Again I heard the nightingale 

Sing as she sang those years ago 
In his embowered Italian vale 

To my revered Boccaccio. 

And still I love that brown old book 

I found upon the topmost shelf — 
I love it so I let none look 

Upon the treasure but myself! 
And yet I have a strapping boy 

Who (I have every cause to know) 
Would to its full extent enjoy 

The friendship of Boccaccio! 

But boys are, oh! so different now 

From what they were when I was one! 
I fear my boy would not know how 

To take that old raconteur's fun! 
In your companionship, O friend, 

I think it wise alone to go 
Plucking the gracious fruits that bend 

Where'er you lead, Boccaccio. 



MARCUS VARRO 209 

So rest you there upon the shelf, 

Clad in your garb of faded brown; 
Perhaps, sometime, my boy himself 

Shall find you out and take you down. 
Then may he feel the joy once more 

That thrilled me, filled me years ago 
When reverently I brooded o'er 

The glories of Boccaccio! 



MARCUS VARRO 

Marcus Varro went up and down 

The places where old books were sold; 
He ransacked all the shops in town 

For pictures new and pictures old. 
He gave the folk of earth no peace; 

Snooping around by day and night, 
He plied the trade in Rome and Greece 

Of an insatiate Grangerite. 

"Pictures!" was evermore his cry — 

" Pictures of old or recent date," 
And pictures only would he buy 

Wherewith to "extra-illustrate." 
Full many a tome of ancient type 

And many a manuscript he took, 
For nary purpose but to swipe 

Their pictures for some other book. 

While Marcus Varro plied his fad 

There was not in the shops of Greece 
A book or pamphlet to be had 

That was not minus frontispiece. 
Nor did he hesitate to ply 

His baleful practices at home; 
It was not possible to buy 

A perfect book in all of Rome! 



210 WESTERN AND OTHER VERSE 

What must the other folks have done — 
Who, glancing o'er the books they bought, 

Came soon and suddenly upon 
The vandalism Varro wrought! 

How must their cheeks have flamed with red- 
How did their hearts with choler beat! 

We can imagine what they said — 
We can imagine, not repeat! 

Where are the books that Varro made — 

The pride of dilettante Rome — 
With divers portraitures inlaid 

Swiped from so many another tome? 
The worms devoured them long ago — 

O wretched worms! ye should have fed 
Not on the books "extended" so, 

But on old Varro' s flesh instead! 

Alas, that Marcus Varro lives 

And is a potent factor yet! 
Alas, that still his practice gives 

Good men occasion for regret! 
To yonder bookstall, pri'thee, go 

And by the "missing" prints and plates 
And frontispieces you shall know 

He lives, and "extra-illustrates"! 



MY GARDEN 

My garden aboundeth in pleasant nooks 

And fragrance is over it all; 
For sweet is the smell of my old, old books 

In their places against the wall. 

Here is a folio that 's grim with age 
And yellow and green with mould; 

There 's the breath of the sea on every page 
And the hint of a stanch ship's hold. 



MY GARDEN 211 

And here is a treasure from France la belle 

Exhaleth a faint perfume 
Of wedded lily and asphodel 

In a garden of song abloom. 

And this wee little book of Puritan mien 

And rude, conspicuous print 
Hath the Yankee flavor of wintergreen, 

Or, may be, of peppermint. 

In Walton the brooks a-babbling tell 

Where the cheery daisy grov s, 
And where in meadow or woodland dwell 

The buttercup and the rose. 

But best beloved of books, I ween, 

Are those which one perceives 
Are hallowed by ashes dropped between 

The yellow, well-thumbed leaves. 

For it 's here a laugh and it 's there a tear, 

Till the treasured book is read; 
And the ashes betwixt the pages here 

Tell us of one long dead. 

But the gracious presence reappears 

As we read the book again, 
And the fragrance of precious, distant years 

Filleth the hearts of men. 

Come, pluck with me in my garden nooks 

The posies that bloom for all; 
Oh, sweet is the smell of my old, old books 

In their places against the w r ali! 



212 western" and other verse 



ONE DAY I GOT A MISSIVE 

One day I got a missive 

Writ in a dainty hand, 
Which made my manly bosom 

With vanity expand. 
'T was from a "young admirer" 

Who asked me would I mind 
Sending her "favorite poem" 

"In autograph, and signed." 

She craved the boon so sweetly 

That I had been a churl 
Had I repulsed the homage 

Of this gentle, timid girl; 
With bright illuminations 

I decked the manuscript, 
And in my choicest paints and inks 

My brush and pen I dipt. 

Indeed it had been tedious 

But that a flattered smile 
Played on my rugged features 

And eased my toil the while. 
I was assured my poem 

Would fill her with delight — 
I fancied she was pretty — 

I knew that she was bright! 

And for a spell thereafter 

That unknown damsel's face 
With its worshipful expression 

Pursued me every place; 
Meseemed to hear her whisper: 

"O, thank you, gifted sir, 
For the overwhelming honor 

You so graciously confer!" 



ONE DAY I GOT A MISSIVE 213 

But a catalogue from Benjamin's 

Disproves what things meseemed — 
Dispels with savage certainty 

The flattering dreams I dreamed; 
For that poor ''favorite poem," 

Done and signed in autograph, 
Is listed in "Cheap Items" 

At a dollar-and-a-half. 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 



WITH TRUMPET AND DRUM 

With big tin trumpet and little red drum, 
Marching like soldiers, the children come! 

It 's this way and that way they circle and file — 

My! but that music of theirs is fine! 
This way and that way, and after a while 
They march straight into this heart of mine! 
A sturdy old heart, but it has to succumb 
To the blare of that trumpet and beat of that drum! 

Come on, little people, from cot and from hall — 
This heart it hath welcome and room for you all! 
It will sing you its songs and warm you with love, 

As your dear little arms with my arms intertwine; 
It will rock you away to the dreamland above — 
Oh, a jolly old heart is this old heart of mine, 
And jollier still is it bound to become 
When you blow that big trumpet and beat that red drum! 

So come; though I see not his dear little face 
And hear not his voice in this jubilant place, 
I know he were happy to bid me enshrine 

His memory deep in my heart with your play — 
Ah me! but a love that is sweeter than mine 
Holdeth my boy in its keeping to-day! 
And my heart it is lonely — so, little folk, come, 
March in and make merry with trumpet and drum! 



214 



THE SUGAR-PLUM TREE 215 



THE SUGAR-PLUM TREE 

Have you ever heard of the Sugar-Plum Tree? 

'T is a marvel of great renown! 
It blooms on the shore of the Lollipop sea 

In the garden of Shut-Eye Town; 
The fruit that it bears is so wondrously sweet 

(As those who have tasted it say) 
That good little children have only to eat 

Of that fruit to be happy next day. 

When you 've got to the tree, you would have a hard time 

To capture the fruit which I sing; 
The tree is so tall that no person could climb 

To the boughs where the sugar-plums swing! 
But up in that tree sits a chocolate cat, 

And a gingerbread dog prowls below — 
And this is the way you contrive to get at 

Those sugar-plums tempting you so: 



You say but the word to that gingerbread dog 
And he barks with such terrible zest 

That the chocolate cat is at once all agog, 
As her swelling proportions attest. 

And the chocolate cat goes cavorting around 
From this leafy limb unto that, 

And the sugar-plums tumble, of course, to the ground- 
Hurrah for that chocolate cat! 

There are marshmallows, gumdrops, and peppermint canes, 

With stripings of scarlet or gold, 
And you carry away of the treasure that rains 

As much as your apron can hold! 
So come, little child, cuddle closer to me 

In your dainty white nightcap and gown, 
And I '11 rock you away to that Sugar-Plum Tree 

In the garden of Shut-Eye Town. 



216 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 



KRINKEN 

Krinken was & little child,— 
It was summer when he smiled. 
Oft the hoary sea and grim 
Stretched its white arms out to him, 
Calling, " Sun-child, come to me; 
Let me warm my heart with thee!" 
But the child heard not the sea. 

Krinken on the beach one day 
Saw a maiden Nis at play; 
Fair, and very fair, was she, 
Just a little child was he. 
"Krinken," said the maiden Nis, 
"Let me have a little kiss, — 
Just a kiss, and go with me 
To the summer-lands that be 
Down within the silver sea." 

Krinken was a little child, 
By the maiden Nis beguiled; 
Down into the calling sea 
With the maiden Nis went he. 

But the sea calls out no more; 
It is winter on the shore, — 
Winter where that little child 
Made sweet summer when he smiled: 
Though 't is summer on the sea 
Where with maiden Nis went he, — 
Summer, summer evermore, — 
It is winter on the shore, 
Winter, winter evermore. 

Of the summer on the deep 
Come sweet visions in my sleep; 
His fair face 'lifts from the sea, 
His dear voice calls out to me, — 
These my dreams of summer be. 



THE NAUGHTY DOLL 217 

Krinken was a little child, 
By the maiden Nis beguiled; 
Oft the hoary sea and grim 
Reached its longing arms to him, 

Crying, "Sun-child, come to me; 
Let me warm my heart with thee!" 
But the sea calls out no more; 
It is winter on the shore, — 
Winter, cold and dark and wild; 
Krinken was a little child, — 
It was summer when he smiled; 
Down he went into the sea, 
And the winter bides with me. 
Just a little child was he. 



THE NAUGHTY DOLL 

My dolly is a dreadful care, — 

Her name is Miss Amandy; 
I dress her up and curl her hair, 

And feed her taffy candy. 
Yet heedless of the pleading voice 

Of her devoted mother, 
She will not wed her mother's choice, 

But says she '11 wed another. 

I 'd have her wed the china vase, — 

There is no Dresden rarer; 
You might go searching every place 

And never find a fairer. 
He is a gentle, pinkish youth, — 

Of that there 's no denying; 
Yet when I speak of him, forsooth, 

Amandy falls to crying! 

She loves the drum — that 's very plain- 
And scorns the vase so clever; 



218 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 

And weeping, vows she will remain 

A spinster doll forever! 
The protestations of the drum 

I am convinced are hollow; 
When once distressing times should come, 

How soon would ruin follow! 

Yet all in vain the Dresden boy 

From yonder mantel woos her; 
A mania for that vulgar toy, 

The noisy drum, imbues her! 
In vain I wheel her to and fro, 

And reason with her mildly, — 
Her waxen tears in torrents flow, 

Her sawdust heart beats wildly. 

I 'm sure that when I 'm big and tall, 

And wear long trailing dresses, 
I sha' n't encourage beaux at all 

Till mamma acquiesces; 
Our choice will be a suitor then 

As pretty as this vase is, — 
Oh, how we '11 hate the noisy men 

With whiskers on their faces! 



NIGHTFALL IN DORDRECHT 

The mill goes toiling slowly around 

With steady and solemn creak, 
And my little one hears in the kindly sound 

The voice of the old mill speak. 
While round and round those big white wings 

Grimly and ghostlike creep, 
My little one hears that the old mill 'sings: 

"Sleep, little tulip, sleep!" 

The sails are reefed and the nets are drawn, 
And, over his pot of beer, 






INTRY-MINTRY 219 

The fisher, against the morrow's dawn, 

Lustily maketh cheer; 
He mocks at the winds that caper along 

From the far-off clamorous deep, — 
But we — we love their lullaby song 

Of "Sleep, little tulip, sleep! " 

Old dog Fritz in slumber sound 

Groans of the stony mart — 
To-morrow how proudly he '11 trot you round, 

Hitched to our new milk-cart! 
And you shall help me blanket the kine 

And fold the gentle sheep 
And set the herring a-soak in brine — 

But now, little tulip, sleep! 

A Dream-One comes to button the eyes 

That wearily droop and blink, 
While the old mill buffets the frowning skies 

And scolds at the stars that wink; 
Over your face the misty wings 

Of that beautiful Dream-One sweep, 
And rocking your cradle she softly sings: 

"Sleep, little tulip, sleep!" 



INTRY-MINTRY 

Willie and Bess, Georgie and May — 
Once, as these children were hard at play, 
An old man, hoary and tottering, came 
And watched them playing their pretty game. 
He seemed to wonder, while standing there, 

What the meaning thereof could be — 
Aha, but the old man yearned to share 

Of the little children's innocent glee 
As they circled around with laugh and shout 
And told their rime at counting out: 

" Intry-mintry, cutrey-corn, 






220 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 

Apple-seed and apple-thorn; 
Wire, brier, limber, lock, 
Twelve geese in a flock; 
Some flew east, some flew west, 
Some flew over the cuckoo's nest!" 

Willie and Bess, Georgie and May — 
Ah, the mirth of that summer-day! 
'T was Father Time who had come to share 
The innocent joy of those children there; 
He learned betimes the game they played 

And into their sport with them went he — 
How could the children have been afraid, 

Since little they recked whom he might be? 
They laughed to hear old Father Time 
Mumbling that curious nonsense rime 

Of " Intry-mintry, cutrey-corn, 

Apple-seed and apple-thorn; 

W T ire, brier, limber, lock, 

Twelve geese in a flock; 

Some flew east, some flew west, 

Some flew over the cuckoo's nest!" 

Willie and Bess, Georgie and May, 
And joy of summer — where are they? 
The grim old man still standeth near 
Crooning the song of a far-off year; 
And into the winter I come alone, 

Cheered by that mournful requiem, 
Soothed by the dolorous monotone 

That shall count me off as it counted them- 
The solemn voice of old Father Time 
Chanting the homely nursery rime 

He learned of the children a summer morn 
When, with "apple-seed and apple-thorn," 
Life was full of the dulcet cheer 
That bringeth the grace of heaven anear — 
The sound of the little ones hard at play — 
Willie and Bess, Georgie and May. 



PITTYPAT AND TIPPYTOE 221 



PITTYPAT AND TIPPYTOE 

All day long they come and go — 
Pittypat and Tippytoe; 

Footprints up and down the hall, 

Playthings scattered on the floor, 
Finger-marks along the wall, 
Telltale smudges on the door — 
By these presents you shall know 
Pittypat and Tippytoe. 

How they riot at their play! 
And a dozen times a day 

In they troop, demanding bread — 

Only buttered bread will do, 
And that butter must be spread 
Inches thick with sugar too! 
And I never can say "No, 
Pittypat and Tippytoe!" 

Sometimes there are griefs to soothe, 
Sometimes ruffled brows to smooth; 
For (I much regret to say) 

Tippytoe and Pittypat 
Sometimes interrupt their play 
With an internecine spat; 
Fie, for shame! to quarrel so — 
Pittypat and Tippytoe! 

Oh the thousand worrying things 
Every day recurrent brings! 

Hands to scrub and hair to brush, 

Search for playthings gone amiss, 
Many a wee complaint to hush, 
Many a little bump to kiss; 
Life seems one vain, fleeting show 
To Pittypat and Tippytoe! 



222 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 

And when day is at an end, 
There are little duds to mend: 
Little frocks are strangely torn, 

Little shoes great holes reveal, 
Little hose, but one day worn, 
Rudely yawn at toe and heel! 
Who but you could work such woe, 
Pittypat and Tippytoe? 

But when comes this thought to me: 
"Some there are that childless be," 
Stealing to their little beds, 

With a love I cannot speak, 
Tenderly I stroke their heads — 
Fondly kiss each velvet cheek. 
God help those who do not know 
A Pittypat or Tippytoe! 

On the floor and down the hall, 
Rudely smutched upon the wall, 
There are proofs in every kind 

Of the havoc they have wrought, 
And upon my heart you'd find 

Just such trade-marks, if you sought; 
Oh, how glad I am 't is so, 
Pittypat and Tippytoe! 



BALOW, MY BONNIE 

Hush, bonnie, dinna greit; 
Moder will rocke her sweete,— 

Balow, my boy! 
When that his toile ben done, 
Daddie will come anone, — 
Hush thee, my lyttel one; 

Balow, my boy! 



THE HAWTHORNE CHILDREN 223 



Gin thou dost sleepe, perchaunce 
Fayries will come to daunce, — 

Balow, my boy! 
Oft hath thy moder seene 
Moonlight and mirkland queene 
Daunce on thy slumbering een, — 

Balow, my boy! 

Then droned a bomblebee 
Saftly this songe to thee: 

"Balow, my boy!" 
And a wee heather bell, 
Pluckt from a fayry dell, 
Chimed thee this rune hersell: 

"Balow, my boy!" 

Soe, bonnie, dinna greit; 
Moder doth rocke her sweete, — 

Balow, my boy! 
Give mee thy lyttel hand, 
Moder will hold it and 
Lead thee to balow land, — 

Balow, my boy! 



THE HAWTHORNE CHILDREN 

The Hawthorne children — seven in all — 
Are famous friends of mine, 

And with what pleasure I recall 

How, years ago, one gloomy fall, 
I took a tedious railway line 

And journeyed by slow stages down 

Unto that sleepy seaport town 
(Albeit one worth seeing), 
Where Hildegarde, John, Henry, Fred, 



224 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 

And Beatrix and Gwendolen 
And she that was the baby then — 
These famous seven, as aforesaid, 
Lived, moved, and had their being. 

The Hawthorne children gave me such 

A welcome by the sea, 
That the eight of us were soon in touch, 
And though their mother marvelled much, 

Happy as larks were we! 
Egad I was a boy again 
With Henry, John, and Gwendolen! 

And, oh! the funny capers 
I cut with Hildegarde and Fred! 
The pranks we heedless children played, 
The deafening, awful noise we made — 
'T would shock my family, if they read 

About it in the papers! 



The Hawthorne children all were smart; 

The girls, as I recall, 
Had comprehended every art 
Appealing to the head and heart, 

The boys were gifted, all; 
'T was Hildegarde who showed me how 
To hitch the horse and milk a cow 

And cook the best of suppers; 
With Beatrix upon the sands 
I sprinted daily, and was beat, 
While Henry stumped me to the feat 
Of walking round upon my hands 

Instead of on my "uppers." 



The Hawthorne children liked me best 

Of evenings, after tea; 
For then, by general request, 
I spun them yarns about the west — 

And all involving Me! 



LITTLE BLUE PIGEON 225 

I represented how I 'd slain 
The bison on the gore-smeared plain, 
And divers tales of wonder 
I told of how I 'd fought and bled 
In Injun scrimmages galore, 
Till Mrs. Hawthorne quoth, "No more!" 
And packed her darlings off to bed 
To dream of blood and thunder! 

They must have changed a deal since then: 

The misses tall and fair 
And those three lusty, handsome men, 
Would they be girls and boys again 

Were I to happen there, 
Down in that spot beside the sea 
Where we made such tumultuous glee 

In dull autumnal weather? 

Ah me! the years go swiftly by, 
And yet how fondly I recall 
The week when we were children all- 
Dear Hawthorne children, you and I — 

Just eight of us, together! 



LITTLE BLUE PIGEON 

(JAPANESE LULLABY) 

Sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings — 
Little blue pigeon with velvet eyes; 

Sleep to the singing of mother-bird swinging- 
Swinging the nest where her little one lies. 

Away out yonder I see a star — 
Silvery star with a tinkling song; 

To the soft dew falling I hear it calling — 
Calling and tinkling the night along. 



\ 
226 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 

In through the window a moonbeam comes — 
Little gold moonbeam with misty wings; 

All silently creeping, it asks: "Is he sleeping — 
Sleeping and dreaming while mother sings?" 

Up from the sea there floats the sob 

Of the waves that are breaking upon the shore, 

As though they were groaning in anguish, and moaning- 
Bemoaning the ship that shall come no more. 

But sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings — 
Little blue pigeon with mournful eyes; 

Am I not singing? — see, I am swinging — 
Swinging the nest where my darling lies. 



THE LYTTEL BOY 

Some time there ben a lyttel boy 

That wolde not renne and play, 
And helpless like that little tyke 

Ben allwais in the way. 
"Goe, make you merrie with the rest,' 

His weary moder cried; 
But with a frown he catcht her gown 

And hong untill her side. 

That boy did love his moder well, 

Which spake him faire, I ween; 
He loved to stand and hold her hand 

And ken her with his een; 
His cosset bleated in the croft, 

His toys unheeded lay, — 
He wolde not goe, but, tarrying soe, 

Ben allwais in the way. 

Godde loveth children and doth gird 
His throne with soche as these, 



TEENY-WEENY 227 

And he doth smile in plaisaunce while 

They cluster at his knees; 
And some time, when he looked on earth 

And watched the bairns at play, 
He kenned with joy a lyttel boy 

Ben allwais in the way. 

And then a moder felt her heart 

How that it ben to-torne, 
She kissed eche day till she ben gray 

The shoon he use to worn; 
No bairn let hold untill her gown 

Nor played upon the floore, — 
Godde's was the joy; a lyttel boy 

Ben in the way no more! 



TEENY-WEENY 

Every evening, after tea, 
Teeny- Weeny comes to me, 
And, astride my willing knee, 

Plies his lash and rides away; 
Though that palfrey, all too spare, 
Finds his burden hard to bear, 
Teeny- Weeny doesn 't care; 

He commands, and I obey! 

First it 's trot, and gallop then; 
Now it 's back to trot again; 
Teeny- Weeny likes it when 

He is riding fierce and fast. 
Then his dark eyes brighter grow 
And his cheeks are all aglow: 
"More!" he cries, and never "Whoa!" 

Till the horse breaks down at last. 

Oh, the strange and lovely sights 
Teeny- Weeny sees of nights, 



228 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 

As he makes those famous flights 
On that wondrous horse of his! 
Oftentimes before he knows, 
Wearylike his eyelids close, 
And, still smiling, off he goes 
Where the land of By-low is. 

There he sees the folk of fay 
Hard at ring-a-rosie play, 
And he hears those fairies say: 

"Come, let 's chase him to and fro! : 
But, with a defiant shout, 
Teeny puts that host to rout; 
Of this tale I make no doubt, 

Every night he tells it so. 

So I feel a tender pride 

In my boy who dares to ride 

That fierce horse of his astride, 

Off into those misty lands; 
And as on my breast he lies, 
Dreaming in that wondrous wise, 
I caress his folded eyes, 

Pat his little dimpled hands. 

On a time he went away, 
Just a little while to stay, 
And I 'm not ashamed to say 

I was very lonely then; 
Life without him was so sad, 
You can fancy I was glad 
And made merry when I had 

Teeny- Weeny back again! 

So of evenings, after tea, 
When he toddles up to me 
And goes tugging at my knee, 

You should hear his palfrey neigh! 



NELLIE 229 

You should see him prance and shy, 
When, with an exulting cry, 
Teeny- Weeny, vaulting high, 
Plies his lash and rides away! 



NELLIE 



His listening soul hears no echo of battle, 

No psean of triumph nor welcome of fame; 
But down through the years comes a little one's prattle, 

And softly he murmurs her idolized name. 
And it seems as if now at his heart she were clinging 

As she clung in those dear, distant years to his knee; 
He sees her fair face, and he hears her sweet singing — 

And Nellie is coming from over the sea. 

While each patriot's hope stays the fulness of sorrow, 

While our eyes are bedimmed and our voices are low, 
He dreams of the daughter who comes with the morrow 

Like an angel come back from the dear long ago. 
Ah, what to him now is a nation's emotion, 

And what for our love or our grief careth he ? 
A swift-speeding ship is a-sail on the ocean, 

And Nellie is coming from over the sea! 

O daughter — my daughter! when Death stands before me 

And beckons me off to that far misty shore, 
Let me see your loved form bending tenderly o'er me, 

And feel your dear kiss on my lips as of yore. 
In the grace of your love all my anguish abating, 

I '11 bear myself bravely and proudly as he, 
And know the sweet peace that hallowed his waiting 

When Nellie was coming from over the sea. 



230 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 



NORSE LULLABY 



The sky is dark and the hills are white 

As the storm-king speeds from the north to-night; 
And this is the song the storm-king sings, 
As over the world his cloak he flings: 

"Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep"; 
He rustles his wings and gruffly sings: 

"Sleep, little one, sleep." 

On yonder mountain-side a vine 
Clings at the foot of a mother pine; 
The tree bends over the trembling thing, 
And only the vine can hear her sing: 

"Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep — 
What shall you fear when I am here? 

Sleep, little one, sleep." 

The king may sing in his bitter flight, 
The tree may croon to the vine to-night, 
But the little snowflake at my breast 
Liketh the song I sing the best — 

Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep; 
Weary thou art, a-next my heart 

Sleep, little one, sleep. 



GRANDMA'S PRAYER 

I pray that, risen from the dead, 

I may in glory stand — 
A crown, perhaps, upon my head, 

But a needle in my hand. 

I 've never learned to sing or play, 
So let no harp be mine; 

From birth unto my dying day, 
Plain sewing 's been my line. 



SOME TIME 231 

Therefore, accustomed to the end 

To plying useful stitches, 
I '11 be content if asked to mend 

The little angels' breeches. 



SOME TIME 

Last night, my darling, as you slept, 

I thought I heard you sigh, 
And to your little crib I crept, 

And watched a space thereby; 
Then, bending down, I kissed your brow 

For, oh! I love you so — 
You are too young to know it now, 

But some time you shall know. 

Some time, when, in a darkened place 

Where others come to weep, 
Your eyes shall see a weary face 

Calm in eternal sleep; 
The speechless lips, the wrinkled brow, 

The patient smile may show — 
You are too young to know it now, 

But some time you shall know. 

Look backward, then, into the years, 

And see me here to-night — 
See, O my darling! how my tears 

Are falling as I write; 
And feel once more upon your brow 

The kiss of long ago — 
You are too young to know it now, 

But some time you shall know. 



232 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 



THE FIRE-HANGBIRD'S NEST 

As I am sitting in the sun upon the porch to-day, 

I look with wonder at the elm that stands across the way; 

I say and mean "with wonder," for now it seems to me 

That elm is not as tall as years ago it used to be! 

The old fire-hangbird 's built her nest therein for many springs — ■ 

High up amid the sportive winds the curious cradle swings, 

But not so high as when a little boy I did my best 

To scale that elm and carry off the old fire-hangbird' s nest! . 

The Hubbard boys had tried in vain to reach the homely prize 

That dangled from that upper outer twig in taunting wise, 

And once, when Deacon Turner's boy had almost grasped the 

limb, 
He fell! and had to have a doctor operate on him! 
Philetus Baker broke his leg and Orrin Root his arm — 
But what of that ? The danger gave the sport a special charm ! 
The Bixby and the Cutler boys, the Newtons and the rest 
Ran every risk to carry off the old fire-hangbird's nest! 

I can remember that I used to knee my trousers through, 
That mother used to wonder how my legs got black and blue, 
And how she used to talk to me and make stern threats when 

she 
Discovered that my hobby was the nest in yonder tree; 
How, as she patched my trousers or greased my purple legs, 
She told me 't would be wicked to destroy a hangbird's eggs, 
And then she 'd call on father and on gran'pa to attest 
That they, as boys, had never robbed an old fire-hangbird's nest! 

Yet all those years I coveted the trophy flaunting there, 
While, as it were in mockery of my abject despair, 
The old fire-hangbird confidently used to come and go, 
As if she were indifferent to the bandit horde below! 
And sometimes clinging to her nest we thought we heard her chide 
The callow brood whose cries betrayed the fear that reigned in- 
side: 
"Hush, little dears! all profitless shall be their wicked quest — 
I knew my business when I built the old fire-hangbird's nest!" 



BUTTERCUP, POPPY, FORGET-ME-NOT 233 

For many, very many years that mother-bird has come 
To rear her pretty little brood within that cosey home. 
She is the selfsame bird of old — I 'm certain it is she — 
Although the chances are that she has quite forgotten me. 
Just as of old that prudent, crafty bird of compound name 
(And in parenthesis I '11 say her nest is still the same) ; 
Just as of old the passion, too, that fires the youthful breast 
To climb unto and comprehend the old fire-hangbird's nest! 

I like to see my old-time friend swing in that ancient tree, 
And, if the elm 's as tall and sturdy as it used to be, 
I 'm sure that many a year that nest shall in the breezes blow, 
For boys are n't what they used to be a forty years ago! 
The elm looks shorter than it did when brother Rufe and I 
Beheld with envious hearts that trophy flaunted from on high; 
He writes that in the city where he 's living 'way out West 
His little boys have never seen an old fire-hangbird's nest! 

Poor little chaps! how lonesomelike their city life must be — 
I wish they 'd come and live awhile in this old house with me! 
They 'd have the honest friends and healthful sports I used to know 
When brother Rufe and I were boys a forty years ago. 
So, when they grew from romping lads to busy, useful men, 
They could recall with proper pride their country life again; 
And of those recollections of their youth I 'm sure the best 
Would be of how they sought in vain the old fire-hangbird's nest! 



BUTTERCUP, POPPY, FORGET-ME-NOT 

Buttercup, Poppy, Forget-me-not — 
These three bloomed in a garden spot; 
And once, all merry with song and play, 
A little one heard three voices say: 

"Shine and shadow, summer and spring, 

O thou child with the tangled hair 
And laughing eyes! we three shall bring 

Each an offering passing fair." 
The little one did not understand, 
But they bent and kissed the dimpled hand. 



234 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 

Buttercup gambolled all day long, 
Sharing the little one's mirth and song; 
Then, stealing along on misty gleams, 
Poppy came bearing the sweetest dreams. 

Playing and dreaming — and that was all 
Till once a sleeper would not awake; 

Kissing the little face under the pall, 

We thought of the words the third flower spake; 
And we found betimes in a hallowed spot 
The solace and peace of Forget-me-not. 

Buttercup shareth the joy of day, 

Glinting with gold the hours of play; 

Bringeth the Poppy sweet repose, 

When the hands would fold and the eyes would close; 

And after it all — the play and the sleep 
Of a little life — what cometh then? 

To the hearts that ache and the eyes that weep 
A new flower bringeth God's peace again. 
Each one serveth its tender lot — 
Buttercup, Poppy, Forget-me-not. 



WYNKEN, BLYNKEN, AND NOD 

(dutch lullaby) 

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night 

Sailed off in a wooden shoe — 
Sailed on a river of crystal light, 

Into a sea of dew. 
''Where are you going, and what do you wish? 

The old moon asked the three. 
"We have come to fish for the herring fish 
That live in this beautiful sea; 
Nets of silver and gold have we!" 
Said Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And Nod. 



WYNKEN, BLYNKEN, AND NOD 235 

The old moon laughed and sang a song, 

As they rocked in the wooden shoe, 
And the wind that sped them all night long 

Ruffled the waves of dew. 
The little stars were the herring fish 
That lived in that beautiful sea — 
"Now cast your nets wherever you wish — 
Never afeard are we"; 
So cried the stars to the fishermen three: 
Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And Nod. 

All night long their nets they threw 

To the stars in the twinkling foam — 
Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe, 

Bringing the fishermen home; 
'T was all so pretty a sail it seemed 

As if it could not be, 
And some folks thought 't was a dream they 'd dreamed 
Of sailing that beautiful sea — 
But I shall name you the fishermen three: 
Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And Nod. 

Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes, 

And Nod is a little head, 
And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies 

Is a wee one's trundle-bed. 
So shut your eyes while mother sings 

Of wonderful sights that be, 
And you shall see the beautiful things 
As you rock in the misty sea, 
Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three: 
Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And Nod. 



236 POEMS OF CHILDIIOOD 

GOLD AND LOVE FOR DEARIE 

(CORNISH LULLABY) 

Out on the mountain over the town, 

All night long, all night long, 
The trolls go up and the trolls go down, 

Bearing their packs and singing a song; 
And this is the song the hill-folk croon, 
As they trudge in the light of the misty moon- 
This is ever their dolorous tune: 
"Gold, gold! ever more gold — 
Bright red gold for dearie!" 

Deep in the hill a father delves 
All night long, all night long; 
None but the peering, furtive elves 
Sees his toil and hears his song; 
Merrily ever the cavern rings 
As merrily ever his pick he swings, 
And merrily ever this song he sings: 
"Gold, gold! ever more gold — 
Bright red gold for dearie I" 

Mother is rocking thy lowly bed 
All night long, all night long, 
Happy to smooth thy curly head, 

To hold thy hand and to sing her song: 
'T is not of the hill-folk dwarfed and old, 
Nor the song of thy father, stanch and bold, 
And the burthen it beareth is not of gold: 
But it 's "Love, love! nothing but love- 
Mother's love for dearie 1" 



THE PEACE OF CHRISTMAS-TIME 237 



THE PEACE OF CHRISTMAS-TIME 



Dearest, how hard it is to say 

That all is for the best, 
Since, sometimes, in a grievous way 

God's will is manifest. 



See with what hearty, noisy glee 

Our little ones to-night 
Dance round and round our Christmas tree 

With pretty toys bedight. 

Dearest, one voice they may not hear, 

One face they may not see — 
Ah, what of all this Christmas cheer 

Cometh to you and me? 

Cometh before our misty eyes 

That other little face, 
And we clasp, in tender, reverent wise, 

That love in the old embrace. 



Dearest, the Christ-child walks to-night, 

Bringing his peace to men, 
And he bringeth to you and to me the light 

Of the old, old years again. 

Bringeth the peace of long ago, 

When a wee one clasped your knee 

And lisped of the morrow — dear one, you know- 
And here come back is he! 



Dearest, 't is sometimes hard to say 

That all is for the best, 
For, often, in a grievous way 

God's will is manifest. 



238 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 

But in the grace of this holy night 
That bringeth us back our child, 

Let us see that the ways of God are right, 
And so be reconciled. 



TO A LITTLE BROOK 

You 're not so big as you were then, 

O little brook!— 
I mean those hazy summers when 
We boys roamed, full of awe, beside 
Your noisy, foaming, tumbling tide, 
And wondered if it could be true 
That there were bigger brooks than you, 

O mighty brook, O peerless brook! 

All up and down this reedy place 

Where lives the brook, 
We angled for the furtive dace; 
The redwing-blackbird did his best 
To make us think he 'd built his nest 
Hard by the stream, when, like as not, 
He 'd hung it in a secret spot 

Far from the brook, the telltale brook! 

And often, when the noontime heat 

Parboiled the brook, 
We 'd draw our boots and swing our feet 
Upon the waves that, in their play, 
Would tag us last and scoot away; 
And mother never seemed to know 
What burnt our legs and chapped them so — 

But father guessed it was the brook! 

And Fido — how he loved to swim 

The cooling brook, 
Whenever we 'd throw sticks for him ; 
And how we boys did wish that we 



TO A LITTLE BROOK 239 

Could only swim as good as he — 
Why, Daniel Webster never was 
Recipient of such great applause 
As Fido, battling with the brook! 

But once — O most unhappy day 

For you, my brook!— 
Came Cousin Sam along that way; 
And, having lived a spell out West, 
Where creeks are n't counted much at best, 
He neither waded, swam, nor leapt, 
But, with superb indifference, stept 

Across that brook — our mighty brook! 

Why do you scamper on your way, 

You little brook, 
When I come back to you to-day? 
Is it because you flee the grass 
That lunges at you as you pass, 
As if, in playful mood, it would 
Tickle the truant if it could, 

You chuckling brook — you saucy brook? 

Or is it you no longer know — 

You fickle brook — 
The honest friend of long ago? 
The years that kept us twain apart 
Have changed my face, but not my heart — 
Many and sore those years, and yet 
I fancied you could not forget 

That happy time, my playmate brook! 

Oh, sing again in artless glee, 

My little brook, 
The song you used to sing for me — 
The song that 's lingered in my ears 
So soothingly these many years; 
My grief shall be forgotten when 
I hear your tranquil voice again 

And that sweet song, dear little brook! 



240 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 



CROODLIN' DOO 



Ho, pretty bee, did you see my croodlin' doo ? 

Ho, little lamb, is she jinkin' on the lea? 

Ho, bonnie fairy, bring my dearie back to me — 
Got a lump o' sugar an' a posie for you, 
Only bring me back my wee, wee croodlin' doo! 

Why! here you are, my little croodlin' doo! 

Looked in er cradle, but did n't find you there — 
Looked f'r my wee, wee croodlin' doo ever' where; 
Be'n kind lonesome all er day withouten you — 
Where you be'n, my teeny, wee, wee croodlin' doo? 

Now you go balow, my little croodlin' doo; 

Now you go rockaby ever so far, — 

Rockaby, rockaby up to the star 
That 's winkin' an' blinkin' an' singin' to you, 
As you go balow, my wee, wee croodlin' doo! 



LITTLE MISTRESS SANS-MERCI 

Little Mistress Sans-Merci 
Fareth world-wide, fancy free: 
Trotteth cooing to and fro, 

And her cooing is command — 
Never ruled there yet, I trow, 
Mightier despot in the land. 
And my heart it lieth where 
Mistress Sans-Merci doth fare. 

Little Mistress Sans-Merci — 
She hath made a slave of me! 
"Go," she biddeth, and I go — 
"Come," and I am fain to come 



LONG AGO 241 

Never mercy doth she show, 
Be she wroth or frolicsome, 
Yet am I content to be 
Slave to Mistress Sans-Merci! 

Little Mistress Sans-Merci 
Hath become so dear to me 
That I count as passing sweet 

All the pain her moods impart, 
And I bless the little feet 

That go trampling on my heart: 
Ah, how lonely life would be 
But for little Sans-Merci! 

Little Mistress Sans-Merci, 
Cuddle close this night to me, 

And the heart, which all day long 

Ruthless thou hast trod upon, 
Shall outpour a soothing song 
For its best beloved one — 
All its tenderness for thee, 
Little Mistress Sans-Merci! 



LONG AGO 

I once knew all the birds that came 

And nested in our orchard trees, 
For every flower I had a name — 

My friends were woodchucks, toads, and bees; 
I knew where thrived in yonder glen 

What plants would soothe a stone-bruised toe- 
On, I was very learned then, 

But that was very long ago. 

I knew the spot upon the hill 

Where checkerberries could be found, 

I knew the rushes near the mill 

Where pickerel lay that weighed a pound! 



242 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 

I knew the wood — the very tree 

Where lived the poaching, saucy crow, 

And all the woods and crows knew me — 
But that was very long ago. 

And pining for the joys of youth, 

I tread the old familiar spot 
Only to learn this solemn truth: 

I have forgotten, am forgot. 
Yet here 's this youngster at my knee 

Knows all the things I used to know; 
To think I once was wise as he! — 

But that was very long ago. 

I know it 's folly to complain 

Of whatsoe'er the fates decree, 
Yet, were not wishes all in vain, 

I tell you what my wish should be: 
I 'd wish to be a boy again, 

Back with the friends I used to know. 
For I was, oh, so happy then — 

But that was very long ago! 



IN THE FIRELIGHT 

The fire upon the hearth is low, 

And there is stillness everywhere, 
And, like wing'd spirits, here and there 

The firelight shadows fluttering go. 

And as the shadows round me creep, 
A childish treble breaks the gloom, 
And softly from a further room 

Comes: "Now I lay me down to sleep." 

And, somehow, with that little pray'r 
And that sweet treble in my ears, 
My thought goes back to distant years, 

And lingers with a dear one there; 



COBBLER AND STORK 243 

And as I hear my child's amen, 

My mother's faith comes back to me — 
Crouched at her side I seem to be, 

And mother holds my hands again. 

Oh, for an hour in that dear place — 

Oh, for the peace of that dear time — 
Oh, for that childish trust sublime — 

Oh, for a glimpse of mother's face! 

Yet, as the shadows round me creep, 
I do not seem to be alone — 
Sweet magic of that treble tone 

And "Now I lay me down to sleep!" 



COBBLER AND STORK 

COBBLER 

Stork, I am justly wroth, 

For thou hast wronged me sore; 
The ash roof-tree that shelters thee 

Shall shelter thee no more! 

STORK 

Full fifty years I 've dwelt 

Upon this honest tree, 
And long ago (as people know!) 

I brought thy father thee. 
What hail hath chilled thy heart, 

That thou shouldst bid me go? 
Speak out, I pray — then I '11 away, 

Since thou commandest so. 

COBBLER 

Thou tellest of the time 

When, wheeling from the west, 
This hut thou sought'st and one thou brought'st 

Unto a mother's breast. 



244 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 

I was the wretched child 

Was fetched that dismal morn — 
'T were better die than be (as I) 

To life of misery born! 
And hadst thou borne me on 

Still farther up the town, 
A king I 'd be of high degree, 

And wear a golden crown! 
For yonder lives the prince 

Was brought that selfsame day: 
How happy he, while — look at me! 

I toil my life away! 
And see my little boy — 

To what estate he 's born! 
Why, when I die no hoard leave I 

But poverty and scorn. 
And thou hast done it all — 

I might have been a king 
And ruled in state, but for thy hate, 

Thou base, perfidious thing! 

STORK 

Since, cobbler, thou dost speak 

Of one thou lovest well, 
Hear of that king what grievous thing 

This very morn befell. 
Whilst round thy homely bench 

Thy well-beloved played, 
In yonder hall beneath a pall 

A little one was laid; 
Thy well-beloved's face 

Was rosy with delight, 
But 'neath that pall in yonder hall 

The little face is white; 
Whilst by a merry voice 

Thy soul is filled with cheer, 
Another weeps for one that sleeps 

All mute and cold anear; 
One father hath his hope, 

And one is childless now; 



"lollyby, lolly, lollyby" 245 

He wears a crown and rules a town — 

Only a cobbler thou! 
Wouldst thou exchange thy lot 

At price of such a woe? 
I '11 nest no more above thy door, 

But, as thou bidst me, go. 

cobbler 

Nay, stork! thou shalt remain — 

I mean not what I said; 
Good neighbors we must always be, 

So make thy home o'erhead. 
I would not change my bench 

For any monarch's throne, 
Nor sacrifice at any price 

My darling and my own! 
Stork! on my roof-tree bide, 

That, seeing thee anear, 
I '11 thankful be God sent by thee 

Me and my darling here! 



" LOLLYBY, LOLLY, LOLLYBY" 

Last night, whiles that the curfew bell ben ringing, 
I heard a moder to her dearie singing 

"Lollyby, lolly, lollyby"; 
And presently that chylde did cease hys weeping, 
And on his moder's breast did fall a-sleeping 

To "lolly, lolly, lollyby." 

Faire ben the chylde unto his moder clinging, 
But fairer yet the moder's gentle singing — 

"Lollyby, lolly, lollyby"; 
And angels came and kisst the dearie smiling 
In dreems while him hvs moder ben beguiling 

With "lolly, lolly, lollyby." 



246 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 

Then to my harte saies I: "Oh, that thy beating 
Colde be assuaged by some sweete voice repeating 

'Lollyby, lolly, lollyby'; 
That like this lyttel chylde I, too, ben sleeping 
With plaisaunt phantasies about me creeping, 

To 'lolly, lolly, lollyby'!" 

Some time — mayhap when curfew bells are ringing — 
A weary harte shall heare straunge voices singing 

" Lollyby, lolly, lollyby"; 
Some time, mayhap, with Chryst's love round me streaming, 
I shall be lulled into eternal dreeming, 

With "lolly, lolly, lollyby." 



A VALENTINE 

Your gran'ma, in her youth, was quite 

As blithe a little maid as you. 
And, though her hair is snowy white, 

Her eyes still have their maiden blue, 
And on her cheeks, as fair as thine, 

Methinks a girlish blush would glow 
If she recalled the valentine 

She got, ah ! many years ago. 

A valorous youth loved gran'ma then, 

And wooed her in that auld lang syne; 
And first he told his secret when 

He sent the maid that valentine. 
No perfumed page nor sheet of gold 

Was that first hint of love he sent, 
But with the secret gran'pa told — 

"I love you" — gran'ma was content. 

Go, ask your gran'ma, if you will, 

If — though her head be bowed and gray- 

If — though her feeble pulse be chill — 
True love abideth not for aye; 



AT THE DOOR 247 

By that quaint portrait on the wall, 

That smiles upon her from above, 
Methinks your gran'ma can recall 

The sweet divinity of love. 

Dear Elsie, here 's no page of gold — 

No sheet embossed with cunning art— 
But here 's a solemn pledge of old: 

"I love you, love, with all my heart." 
And if in what I send you here 

You read not all of love expressed, 
Go — go to gran'ma, Elsie dear, 

And she will tell you all the rest! 



AT THE DOOR 

I thought myself, indeed, secure, 
So fast the door, so firm the lock; 

But, lo! he toddling comes to lure 
My parent ear with timorous knock. 

My heart were stone could it withstand 
The sweetness of my baby's plea, — 

That timorous, baby knocking and 
''Please let me in, — it's only me." 

I threw aside the unfinished book, 
Regardless of its tempting charms, 

And, opening wide the door, I took 
My laughing darling in my arms. 

Who knows but in Eternity, 
I, like a truant child, shall wait 

The glories of a life to be, 

Beyond the Heavenly Father's gate? 



248 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 

And will that Heavenly Father heed 
The truant's supplicating cry, 

As at the outer door I plead, 
" 'Tis I O Father! only I"? 



HI-SPY 



Strange that the city thoroughfare, 
Noisy and bustling all the day, 

Should with the night renounce its care 
And lend itself to children's play! 

Oh, girls are girls, and boys are boys, 
And have been so since Abel's birth, 

And shall be so till dolls and toys 

Are with the children swept from earth. 

The self-same sport that crowns the day 
Of many a Syrian shepherd's son, 

Beguiles the little lads at play 
By night in stately Babylon. 

I hear their voices in the street, 

Yet 't is so different now from then! 

Come, brother! from your winding-sheet, 
And let us two be boys again! 



LITTLE BOY BLUE 

The little toy dog is covered with dust, 

But sturdy and stanch he stands; 
And the little toy soldier is red with rust, 

And his musket moulds in his hands. 
Time was when the little toy dog was new, 

And the soldier was passing fair; 
And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue 

Kissed them and put them there. 



father's letter 249 

"Now, don't you go till I come," he said, 

"And don't you make any noise!" 
So, toddling off to his trundle-bed, 

He dreamt of the pretty toys; 
And, as he was dreaming, an angel song 

Awakened our Little Boy Blue — 
Oh! the years are many, the years are long, 

But the little toy friends are true! 

Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand, 

Each in the same old place — 
Awaiting the touch of a little hand, 

The smile of a little face; 
And they wonder, as waiting the long years through 

In the dust of that little chair, 
What has become of our Little Boy Blue, 

Since he kissed them and put them there. 



FATHER'S LETTER 

I 'm going to write a letter to our oldest boy who went 
Out West last spring to practise law and run for president; 
I '11 tell him all the gossip I guess he 'd like to hear, 
For he has n't seen the home-folks for going on a year! 
Most generally it 's Marthy does the writing, but as she 
Is suffering with a felon, why, the job devolves on me — 
So, when the supper things are done and put away to-night, 
I '11 draw my boots and shed my coat and settle down to write. 

I '11 tell him crops are looking up, with prospects big for corn, 
That, fooling with the barnyard gate, the off-ox hurt his horn; 
That the Templar lodge is doing well — Tim Bennett joined last 

week 
When the prohibition candidate for Congress came to speak; 
That the old gray woodchuck 's living still down in the pasture-lot, 
A-wondering what 's become of little William, like as not! 
Oh, yes, there's lots of pleasant things and no bad news to tell, 
Except that old Bill Graves was sick, but now he 's up and well. 



250 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 

Cy Cooper says — (but I '11 not pass my word that it is so, 
For Cy he is some punkins on spinning yarns, you know) — 
He says that, since the freshet, the pickerel are so thick 
In Baker's pond you can wade in and kill 'em with a stick! 
The Hubbard girls are teaching school, and Widow Cutler's Bill 
Has taken Eli Baxter's place in Luther Eastman's mill; 
Old Deacon Skinner's dog licked Deacon Howard's dog last week, 
And now there are two lambkins in one flock that will not speak. 

The yellow rooster froze his feet, a-wadin' through the snow 

And now he leans ag'in' the fence when he starts in to crow; 

The chestnut colt that was so skittish when he went away — 

I 've broke him to the sulky and I drive him every day! 

We 've got pink window curtains for the front spare-room up- 
stairs, 

And Lizzie's made new covers for the parlor lounge and chairs; 

We 've roofed the barn and braced the elm that has the hangbird's 
nest — 

Oh, there 's been lots of changes since our William went out West! 

Old Uncle Enos Packard is getting mighty gay — 

He gave Miss Susan Birchard a peach the other day! 

His late lamented Sarah hain't been buried quite a year, 

So his purring 'round Miss Susan causes criticism here. 

At the last donation party, the minister opined 

That, if he 'd half suspicioned what was coming, he 'd resigned; 

For, though they brought him slippers like he was a centipede, 

His pantry was depleted by the consequential feed! 

These are the things I '11 write him — our boy that 's in the West; 
And I '11 tell him how we miss him — his mother and the rest; 
Why, we never have an apple-pie that mother does n't say: 
"He liked it so — I wish that he could have a piece to-day!" 
I '11 tell him we are prospering, and hope he is the same — 
That we hope he '11 have no trouble getting on to wealth and 

fame; 
And just before I write "good-by from father and the rest," 
I'll say that "mother sends her love," and that will please him 

best. 



JEWISH LULLABY 251 

For when / went away from home, the weekly news I heard 

Was nothing to the tenderness I found in that one word — 

The sacred name of mother — why, even now as then, 

The thought brings back the saintly face, the gracious love again 

And in my bosom seems to come a peace that is divine, 

As if an angel spirit communed awhile with mine; 

And one man's heart is strengthened by the message from above, 

And earth seems nearer heaven when "mother sends her love." 



JEWISH LULLABY 

My harp is on the willow-tree, 
Else would I sing, O love, to thee 

A song of long-ago — 
Perchance the song that Miriam sung 
Ere yet Judea's heart was wrung 

By centuries of woe. 

I ate my crust in tears to-day, 

As scourged I went upon my way — 

And yet my darling smiled; 
Ay, beating at my breast, he laughed — 
My anguish curdled not the draught — 

'T was sweet with love, my child! 

The shadow of the centuries lies 
Deep in thy dark and mournful eyes — 

But, hush! and close them now; 
And in the dreams that thou shalt dream 
The light of other days shall seem 

To glorify thy brow! 

Our harp is on the willow-tree — 
I have no song to sing to thee, 

As shadows round us roll; 
But, hush and sleep, and thou shalt hear 
Jehovah's voice that speaks to cheer 

Judea's fainting soul! 



252 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 



OUR WHIPPINGS 

Come, Harvey, let us sit awhile and talk about the times 
Before you went to selling clothes and I to peddling rhymes — 
The days when we were little boys, as naughty little boys 
As ever worried home-folks with their everlasting noise! 
Egad! and, were we so disposed, I '11 venture we could show 
The scars of wallopings we got some forty years ago; 
What wallopings I mean I think I need not specify — 
Mother's whippings didn't hurt, but father's! oh, my! 

The way that we played hookey those many years ago — 

We 'd rather give 'most anything than have our children know! 

The thousand naughty things we did, the thousand fibs we told— 

Why, thinking of them makes my Presbyterian blood run cold! 

How often Deacon Sabine Morse remarked if we were his 

He 'd tan our "pesky little hides until the blisters riz!" 

It 's many a hearty thrashing to that Deacon Morse we owe — 

Mother's whippings didn't count — father's did, though! 

We used to sneak off swimmin' in those careless, boyish days, 
And come back home of evenings with our necks and backs ablaze; 
How mother used to wonder why our clothes were full of sand, 
But father, having been a boy, appeared to understand. 
And, after tea, he 'd beckon us to join him in the shed 
Where he'd proceed to tinge our backs a deeper, darker red; 
Say what we will of mother's, there is none will controvert 
The proposition that our father's lickings always hurt! 

For mother was by nature so forgiving and so mild 
That she inclined to spare the rod although she spoiled the child; 
And when at last in self-defence she had to whip us, she 
Appeared to feel those whippings a great deal more than we! 
But how we bellowed and took on, as if we 'd like to die — 
Poor mother really thought she hurt, and that 's what made her cry! 
Then how we youngsters snickered as out the door we slid, 
For mother's whippings never hurt, though father's always did. 



THE ARMENIAN MOTHER 253 

In after years poor father simmered down to five feet four, 

But in our youth he seemed to us in height eight feet or more! 

Oh, how we shivered when he quoth in cold, suggestive tone: 

"I '11 see you in the woodshed after supper all alone!" 

Oh, how the legs and arms and dust and trouser buttons flew — 

What florid vocalisms marked that vesper interview! 

Yes, after all this lapse of years, I feelingly assert, 

With all respect to mother, it was father's whippings hurt! 

The little boy experiencing that tinglin' neath his vest 

Is often loath to realize that all is for the best; 

Yet, when the boy gets older, he pictures with delight 

The bufferings of childhood — as we do here to-night. 

The years, the gracious years, have smoothed and beautified the 

ways 
That to our little feet seemed all too rugged in the days 
Before you went to selling clothes and I to peddling rhymes — 
So, Harvey, let us sit awhile and think upon those times. 



THE ARMENIAN MOTHER 

I was a mother, and I weep; 

The night is come — the day is sped — 
The night of woe profound, for, oh, 

My little golden son is dead! 

The pretty rose that bloomed anon 
Upon my mother breast, they stole; 

They let the dove I nursed with love 
Fly far away — so sped my soul! 

That falcon Death swooped down upon 
My sweet-voiced turtle as he sung; 

'T is hushed and dark where soared the lark, 
And so, and so my heart was wrung! 



254 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 

Before my eyes, they sent the hail 
Upon my green pomegranate-tree — 

Upon the bough where only now 
A rosy apple bent to me. 

They shook my beauteous almond-tree, 
Beating its glorious bloom to death — 

They strewed it round upon the ground, 
And mocked its fragrant dying breath. 

I was a mother, and I weep; 

I seek the rose where nestleth none — 
No more is heard the singing bird — 

I have no little golden son! 

So fall the shadows over me, 

The blighted garden, lonely nest. 

Reach down in love, O God above! 
And fold my darling to thy breast. 



HEIGHO, MY DEARIE 

(ORKNEY LULLABY) 

A moonbeam floateth from the skies, 

Whispering: "Heigho, my dearie; 
I would spin a web before your eyes — 
A beautiful web of silver light 
Wherein is many a wondrous sight 
Of a radiant garden leagues away, 
Where the softly tinkling lilies sway 
And the snow-white lambkins are at play- 
Heigho, my dearie!" 

A brownie stealeth from the vine, 
Singing: "Heigho, my dearie; 
And will you hear this song of mine — 



TO A USURPER 255 

A song of the land of murk and mist 
Where bideth the bud the dew hath kist? 
Then let the moonbeam's web of light 
Be spun before thee silvery white, 
And I shall sing the livelong night — 
Heigho, my dearie!" 

The night wind speedeth from the sea, 

Murmuring: "Heigho, my dearie; 
I bring a mariner's prayer for thee; 
So let the moonbeam veil thine eyes, 
And the brownie sing thee lullabies — 
But I shall rock thee to and fro, 
Kissing the brow he loveth so. 
And the prayer shall guard thy bed, I trow — 

Heigho, my dearie!" 



TO A USURPER 

Aha! a traitor in the camp, 

A rebel strangely bold, — 
A lisping, laughing, toddling scamp, 

Not more than four years old! 

To think that I, who 've ruled alone 

So proudly in the past, 
Should be ejected from my throne 

By my own son at last! 

He trots his treason to and fro, 

As only babies can, 
And says he '11 be his mamma's beau 

When he 's a "gweat, big man"! 

You stingy boy! you 've always had 

A share in mamma's heart. 
Would you begrudge your poor old dad 

The tiniest little part ? 



256 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 

That mamma, I regret to see, 
Inclines to take your part, — 

As if a dual monarchy 

Should rule her gentle heart! 

But when the years of youth have sped; 

The bearded man, I trow, 
Will quite forget he ever said 

He 'd be his mamma's beau. 

Renounce your treason, little son, 
Leave mamma's heart to me; 

For there will come another one 
To claim your loyalty. 

And when that other comes to you, 
God grant her love may shine, 

Through all your life, as fair and true 
As mamma's does through mine! 



THE BELL-FLOWER TREE 

When brother Bill and I were boys, 

How often in the summer we 
Would seek the shade your branches made ? 

O fair and gracious bell-flower tree! 
Amid the clover bloom we sat 

And looked upon the Holyoke range, 
While Fido lay a space away, 

Thinking our silence very strange. 

The woodchuck in the pasture-lot, 

Beside his furtive hole elate, 
Heard, off beyond the pickerel pond, 

The redwing-blackbird chide her mate. 
The bumblebee went bustling round, 

Pursuing labors never done — 
With drone and sting, the greedy thing 

Begrudged the sweets we lay upon! 



THE BELL-FLOWER TREE 257 

Our eyes looked always at the hills — 

The Holyoke hills that seemed to stand 
Between us boys and pictured joys 

Of conquest in a further, land ! 
Ah, how we coveted the time 

When we should leave this prosy place 
And work our wills beyond those hills, 

And meet creation face to face! 

You must have heard our childish talk — 

Perhaps our prattle gave you pain; 
For then, old friend, you seemed to bend 

Your kindly arms about us twain. 
It might have been the wind that sighed, 

And yet I thought I heard you say: 
"Seek not the ills beyond those hills — 

Oh, stay with me, my children, stay!" 

See, I 've come back; the boy you knew 

Is wiser, older, sadder grown; 
I come once more, just as of yore — 

I come, but see! I come alone! 
The memory of a brother's love, 

Of blighted hopes, I bring with me, 
And here I lay my heart to-day — 

A weary heart, O bell-flower tree! 

So let me nestle in your shade 

As though I were a boy again, 
And pray extend your arms, old friend; 

And love me as you used to then. 
Sing softly as you used to sing, 

And maybe I shall seem to be 
A little boy and feel the joy 

Of thy repose, O bell-flower tree! 



258 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 



FAIRY AND CHILD 



Oh, listen, little Dear-My-Soul, 

To the fairy voices calling, 
For the moon is high in the misty sky 

And the honey dew is falling; 
To the midnight feast in the clover bloom 

The bluebells are a-ringing, 
And it 's "Come away to the land of fay" 

That the katydid is singing. 

Oh, slumber, little Dear-My-Soul, 

And hand in hand we '11 wander — 
Hand in hand to the beautiful land 

Of Balow, away off yonder; 
Or we '11 sail along in a lily leaf 

Into the white moon's halo — 
Over a stream of mist and dream 

Into the land of Balow. 

Or, you shall have two beautiful wings — 

Two gossamer wings and airy, 
And all the while shall the old moon smile 

And think you a little fairy; 
And you shall dance in the velvet sky, 

And the silvery stars shall twinkle 
And dream sweet dreams as over their beams 

Your footfalls softly tinkle. 



THE GRANDSIRE 

I loved him so; his voice had grown 
Into my heart, and now to hear 

The pretty song he had sung so long 
Die on the lips to me so dear! 



HUSHABY, SWEET MY OWN 259 

He a child with golden curls, 

And I with head as white as snow — 
I knelt down there and made this pray'r: 

"God, let me be the first to go!" 

How often I recall it now: 

My darling tossing on his bed, 
I sitting there in mute despair, 

Smoothing the curls that crowned his head. 
They did not speak to me of death — 

A feeling here had told me so; 
What could I say or do but pray 

That I might be the first to go? 

Yet, thinking of him standing there 

Out yonder as the years go by, 
Waiting for me to come, I see 

'T was better he should wait, not I. 
For when I walk the vale of death, 

Above the wail of Jordan's flow 
Shall rise a song that shall make me strong — 

The call of the child that was first to go. 



HUSHABY, SWEET MY OWN 

(lullaby: by the sea) 

Fair is the castle upon the hill — 
Hushaby, sweet my own! 
The night is fair, and the waves are still, 
And the wind is singing to vou and to me 
In this lowly home beside the sea — 
Hushaby, sweet my own! 

On yonder hill is store of wealth — 
Hushaby, sweet my own! 
And revellers drink to a little one's health: 



260 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 

But you and I bide night and day 
For the other love that has sailed away — 
Hushaby, sweet my own! 

See not, dear eyes, the forms that creep 
Ghostlike, O my own! 

Out of the mists of the murmuring deep; 

Oh, see them not and make no cry 

Till the angels of death have passed us by — 
Hushaby, sweet my own! 

Ah, little they reck of you and me — 
Hushaby, sweet my own! 

In our lonely home beside the sea; 

They seek the castle up on the hill, 

And there they will do their ghostly will- — 
Hushaby, O my own! 

Here by the sea a mother croons 

"Hushaby, sweet my own!" 
In yonder castle a mother swoons 
While the angels go down to the misty deep, 
Bearing a little one fast asleep — 
Hushaby, sweet my own! 



CHILD AND MOTHER 

mother-my-love, if you '11 give me your hand, 
And go where I ask you to wander, 

1 will lead you away to a beautiful land — 
The Dreamland that 's waiting out yonder. 

We '11 walk in a sweet-posie garden out there 

' Where moonlight and starlight are streaming 

And the flowers and the birds are filling the air 

With the fragrance and music of dreaming. 



MEDIAEVAL EVENTIDE SONG 261 

There '11 be no little tired-out boy to undress, 

No questions or cares to perplex you; 
There '11 be no little bruises or bumps to caress, 

Nor patching of stockings to vex you. 
For I '11 rock you away on a silver-dew stream, 

And sing you asleep when you 're weary, 
And no one shall know of our beautiful dream 

But you and your own little dearie. 

And when I am tired I '11 nestle my head 

In the bosom that 's soothed me so often, 
And the wide-awake stars shall sing in my stead 

A song which our dreaming shall soften. 
So, Mother-My-Love, let me take your dear hand, 

And away through the starlight we '11 wander — 
Away through the mist to the beautiful land — 

The Dreamland that 's waiting out yonder! 



MEDLEVAL EVENTIDE SONG 

Come hither, lyttel childe, and lie upon my breast to-night, 
For yonder fares an angell yclad in raimaunt white, 
And yonder sings ye angell as onely angells may, 
And his songe ben of a garden that bloometh farre awaye. 

To them that have no lyttel childe Godde sometimes sendeth down 

A lyttel childe that ben a lyttel angell of his owne; 

And if so bee they love that childe, he willeth it to staye, 

But elsewise, in his mercie, he taketh it awaye. 

And sometimes, though they love it, Godde yearneth for ye childe, 
And sendeth angells singing, whereby it ben beguiled; 
They fold their arms about ye lamb that croodleth at his play, 
And beare him to ye garden that bloometh farre awaye. 



262 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 

I wolde not lose ye lyttel lamb that Godde hath _ent to me; 
If I colde sing that angell songe, how joysome I sholde be! 
For, with mine arms about him, and my musick in his eare, 
What angell songe of paradize soever sholde I feare? 

Soe come, my lyttel childe, and lie upon my breast to-night, 
For yonder fares an angell yclad in raimaunt white, 
And yonder sings that angell, as onely angells may, 
And his songe ben of a garden that bloometh farre awaye. 



ARMENIAN LULLABY 

If thou wilt shut thy drowsy eyes, 
My mulberry one, my golden sun! 

The rose shall sing thee lullabies, 
My pretty cosset lambkin! 

And thou shalt swing in an almond-tree, 

With a flood of moonbeams rocking thee- 

A silver boat in a golden sea, 

My velvet love, my nestling dove, 
My own pomegranate blossom! 

The stork shall guard thee passing well 
All night, my sweet! my dimple-feet! 
And bring thee myrrh and asphodel, 

My gentle rain-of-springtime! 
And for thy slumbrous play shall twine 
The diamond stars with an emerald vine 
To trail in the waves of ruby wine, 
My myrtle bloom, my heart's perfume, 
My little chirping sparrow! 

And when the morn wakes up to see 
My apple bright, my soul's delight! 

The partridge shall come calling thee, 
My jar of milk-and-honey ! 



CHRISTMAS TREASURES 263 

Yes, thou shalt know what mystery lies 

In the amethyst deep of the curtained skies, 

If thou wilt fold thy onyx eyes, 

You wakeful one, you naughty son, 
You cooing little turtle! 



CHRISTMAS TREASURES 

I count my treasures o'er with care, — 

The little toy my darling knew, 

A little sock of faded hue, 
A little lock of golden hair. 

Long years ago this holy time, 
My little one — my all to me — 
Sat robed in white upon my knee, 

And heard the merry Christmas chime. 

"Tell me, my little golden-head, 

If Santa Claus should come to-night, 
What shall he bring my baby bright, — 

What treasure for my boy?" I said. 

And then he named this little toy, 

While in his round and mournful eyes 
There came a look of sweet surprise, 

That spake his quiet, trustful joy. 

And as he lisped his evening prayer 
He asked the boon with childish grace; 
Then, toddling to the chimney-place, 

He hung this little stocking there. 

That night, while lengthening shadows crept, 
I saw the white-winged angels come 
With singing to our lowly home 

And kiss my darling as he slept. 



264 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 

They must have heard his little prayer, 
For in the morn, with rapturous face, 
He toddled to the chimney-place, 

And found this little treasure there. 

They came again one Christmas-tide, — 
That angel host, so fair and white; 
And, singing all that glorious night, 

They lured my darling from my side. 

A little sock, a little toy, 
A little lock of golden hair, 
The Christmas music on the air, 

A watching for my baby boy! 

But if again that angel train 
And golden-head come back for me, 
To bear me to Eternity, 

My watching will not be in vain. 



OH, LITTLE CHILD 

(SICILIAN LULLABY) 

Hush, little one, and fold your hands — 

The sun hath set, the moon is high; 
The sea is singing to the sands, 

And wakeful posies are beguiled 
By many a fairy lullaby — 

Hush, little child — my little child! 

Dream, little one, and in your dreams 

Float upward from this lowly place — 
Float out on mellow, misty streams 
To lands where bideth Mary mild, 
And let her kiss thy little face, 
You little child — my little child! 



ganderfeather's gift 265 

Sleep, little one, and take thy rest — 

With angels bending over thee, 
Sleep sweetly on that Father's breast 

Whom our dear Christ hath reconciled — 
But stay not there — come back to me, 
Oh, little child— my little child! 



GANDERFEATHER'S GIFT 

I was just a little thing 

When a fairy came and kissed me; 
Floating in upon the light 
Of a haunted summer night, 
Lo, the fairies came to sing 
Pretty slumber songs and bring 

Certain boons that else had missed me. 
From a dream I turned to see 
What those strangers brought for me, 

When that fairy up and kissed me — 

Here, upon this cheek, he kissed me! 

Simmerdew was there, but she 

Did not like me altogether; 
Daisybright and Turtledove, 
Pilfercurds and Honeylove, 
Thistleblow and Amberglee 
On that gleaming, ghostly sea 

Floated from the misty heather, 
And around my trundle-bed 
Frisked, and looked, and whispering said- 

Solemnlike and all together: 

" You shall kiss him, Ganderfeather!" 

Ganderfeather kissed me then — 

Ganderfeather, quaint and merry! 
No attenuate sprite was he, 
— But as buxom as could be; — 



266 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 

Kissed me twice, and once again, 
And the others shouted when 

On my cheek uprose a berry 
Somewhat like a mole, mayhap, 
But the kiss-mark of that chap 
Ganderfeather, passing merry — 
Humorsome, but kindly, very! 

I was just a tiny thing 

When the prankish Ganderfeather 
Brought this curious gift to me 
With his fairy kisses three; 
Yet with honest pride I sing 
That same gift he chose to bring 

Out of yonder haunted heather. 
Other charms and friendships fly — 
Constant friends this mole and I, 

Who have been so long together. 

Thank you, little Ganderfeather! 



BAMBINO 

(CORSICAN LULLABY) 

Bambino in his cradle slept; 

And by his side his grandam grim 
Bent down and smiled upon the child, 

And sung this lullaby to him, — 

This "ninna and anninia": 

"When thou art older, thou shalt mind 
To traverse countries far and wide, 

And thou shalt go where roses blow 
And balmy waters singing glide — 
So ninna and anninia! 



LITTLE HOMER'S SLATE 267 

"And thou shalt wear, trimmed up in points, 

A famous jacket edged in red, 
And, more than that, a peaked hat, 

All decked in gold, upon thy head — 
Ah! ninna and anninia! 

"Then shalt thou carry gun and knife, 

Nor shall the soldiers bully thee; 
Perchance, beset by wrong or debt, 

A mighty bandit thou shalt be — 
So ninna and anninia! 

'No woman yet of our proud race 

Lived to her fourteenth year unwed; 
The brazen churl that eyed a girl 

Bought her the ring or paid his head — 
So ninna and anninia! 

"But once came spies (I know the thieves!) 

And brought disaster to our race; 
God heard us when our fifteen men 

Were hanged within the market-place — 
But ninna and anninia ! 

'Good men they were, my babe, and true, — 

Right worthy fellows all, and strong; 
Live thou and be for them and me 

Avenger of that deadlv wrong — 
So ninna and anninia!" 



LITTLE HOMER'S SLATE 

After dear old grandma died, 
Hunting through an oaken chest 

In the attic, we espied 

What repaid our childish quest; 

'T was a homely little slate, 

Seemingly of ancient date. 



268 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 

On its quaint and battered face 
Was the picture of a cart, 

Drawn with all that awkward grace 
Which betokens childish art; 

But what meant this legend, pray: 

"Homer drew this yesterday"? 

Mother recollected then 

What the years were fain to hide- 
She was but a baby when 

Little Homer lived and died; 
Forty years, so mother said, 
Little Homer had been dead. 

This one secret through those years 
Grandma kept from all apart, 

Hallowed by her lonely tears 
And the breaking of her heart; 

While each year that sped away 

Seemed to her but yesterday. 

So the homely little slate 

Grandma's baby's fingers pressed, 

To a memory consecrate, 
Lieth in the oaken chest, 

Where, unwilling we should know, 

Grandma put it, years ago. 



THE ROCK-A-BY LADY 

The Rock-a-By Lady from Hushaby street 

Comes stealing; comes creeping; 
The poppies they hang from her head to her feet, 
And each hath a dream that is tiny and fleet — 
She bringeth her poppies to you, my sweet, 

When she findeth you sleeping! 



"booh!" 269 

There is one little dream of a beautiful drum — 

" Rub-a-dub!" it goeth; 
There is one little dream of a big sugar-plum, 
And lo! thick and fast the other dreams come 
Of popguns that bang, and tin tops that hum, 

And a trumpet that bloweth! 

And dollies peep out of those wee little dreams 

With laughter and singing; 
And boats go a-floating on silvery streams, 
And the stars peek-a-boo with their own misty gleams, 
And up, up, and up, where the Mother Moon beams, 

The fairies go winging! 

Would you dream all these dreams that are tiny and fleet ? 

They '11 come to you sleeping; 
So shut the two eyes that are weary, my sweet, 
For the Rock-a-By Lady from Hushaby street, 
With poppies that hang from her head to her feet, 

Comes stealing; comes creeping. 



"BOOH!" 



On afternoons, when baby boy has had a splendid nap, 

And sits, like any monarch on his throne, in nurse's lap, 

In some such wise my handkerchief I hold before my face, 

And cautiously and quietly I move about the place; 

Then, with a cry, I suddenly expose my face to view, 

And you should hear him laugh and crow when I say "Booh!" 

Sometimes the rascal tries to make believe that he is scared, 
And really, when I first began, he stared, and stared, and stared: 
And then his under lip came out and farther out it came, 
Till mamma and the nurse agreed it was a "cruel shame" — 
But now what does that same wee, toddling, lisping baby do 
But laugh and kick his little heels when I say "Booh!" 



270 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 

He laughs and kicks his little heels in rapturous glee, and then 

In shrill, despotic treble bids me "do it all aden!" 

And I — of course I do it; for, as his progenitor, 

It is such pretty, pleasant play as this that I am for! 

And it is, oh, such fun! and I am sure that we shall rue 

The time when we are both too old to play the game of "Booh! 



GARDEN AND CRADLE 

When our babe he goeth walking in his garden, 
Around his tinkling feet the sunbeams play; 

The posies they are good to him, 

And bow them as they should to him, 
As fareth he upon his kingly way; 

And birdlings of the wood to him 
Make music, gentle music, all the day, 

When our babe he goeth walking in his garden. 

When our babe he goeth swinging in his cradle, 
Then the night it looketh ever sweetly down; 
The little stars are kind to him, 
The moon she hath a mind to him 
And layeth on his head a golden crown; 

And singeth then the wind to him 
A song, the gentle song of Bethle'm-town, 
When our babe he goeth swinging in his cradle. 



THE NIGHT WIND 

Have you ever heard the wind go " Yooooo" ? 

'T is a pitiful sound to hear! 
It seems to chill you through and through 

With a strange and speechless fear. 
' 'T is the voice of the night that broods outside 

When folk should be asleep, 
And many and many 's the time I 've cried 



JEST 'FORE CHRISTMAS 273 



JEST 'FORE CHRISTMAS 

Father calls me William, sister calls me Will, 

Mother calls me Willie, but the fellers call me Bill! 

Mighty glad I ain't a girl — ruther be a boy, 

Without them sashes, curls, an' things that 's worn by Fauntleroy! 

Love to chawnk green apples an' go swimmin' in the lake — 

Hate to take the castor-ile they give for bellyache! 

'Most all the time, the whole year round, there ain't no flies on me, 

But jest 'fore Christmas I 'm as good as I kin be! 

Got a yeller dog named Sport, sick him on the cat; 
First thing she knows she does n't know where she is at! 
Got a clipper sled, an' when us kids goes out to slide, 
'Long comes the grocery cart, an' we all hook a ride! 
But sometimes when the grocery man is worrited an' cross, 
He reaches at us with his whip, an' larrups up his hoss, 
An' then I laff an' holler, "Oh, ye never teched me!" 
But jest 'fore Christmas I 'm as good as I kin be! 

Gran'ma says she hopes that when I git to be a man, 

I '11 be a missionarer like her oldest brother, Dan, 

As was et up by the cannibuls that lives in Ceylon's Isle, 

Where every prospeck pleases, an' only man is vile! 

But gran'ma she has never been to see a Wild West show, 

Nor read the Life of Daniel Boone, or else I guess she 'd know 

That Buff'lo Bill an' cowboys is good enough for me! 

Excep' jest 'fore Christmas, when I 'm good as I kin be! 

And then old Sport he hangs around, so solemnlike an' still, 
His eyes they seem a-sayin': "What's the matter, little Bill?" 
The old cat sneaks down off her perch an' wonders what 's become 
Of them two enemies of hern that used to make things hum! 
But I am so perlite an' tend so earnestly to biz, 
That mother says to father: "How improved our Willie is!" 
But father, havin' been a boy hisself, suspicions me 
When, jest 'fore Christmas, I 'm as good as I kin be! 



274 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 

For Christmas, with its lots an' lots of candies, cakes, an' toys, 
Was made, they say, for proper kids an' not for naughty boys; 
So wash yer face an' bresh yer hair, an' mind yer p's and q's, 
An' don't bust out yer pantaloons, and don't wear out yer shoes; 
Say "Yessum" to the ladies, and "Yessur" to the men, 
An' when they 's company, don't pass yer plate for pie again; 
But, thinkin' of the things yer 'd like to see upon that tree, 
Jest 'fore Christmas be as good as yer kin be! 



BEARD AND BABY 

I say, as one who never feared 
The wrath of a subscriber's bullet, 

I pity him who has a beard 
But has no little girl to pull it! 

When wife and I have finished tea, 
Our baby woos me with her prattle, 

And, perching proudly on my knee, 
She gives my petted whiskers battle. 

With both her hands she tugs away, 
While scolding at me kind o' spiteful; 

You '11 not believe me when I say 
I find the torture quite delightful! 

No other would presume, I ween, 
To trifle with this hirsute wonder, 

Else would I rise in vengeful mien 
And rend his vandal frame asunder! 

But when her baby fingers pull 

This glossy, sleek, and silky treasure, 

My cup of happiness is full — 

I fairly glow with pride and pleasure! 



THE DINKEY-BIRD 275 

And, sweeter still, through all the day 
I seem to hear her winsome prattle — 

I seem to feel her hands at play, 

As though they gave me sportive battle. 

Yes, heavenly music seems to steal 
Where thought of her forever lingers, 

And round my heart I always feel 
The twining of her dimpled fingers! 



THE DINKEY-BIRD 

In an ocean, 'way out yonder 

(As all sapient people know), 
Is the land of Wonder- Wander, 

Whither children love to go; 
It 's their playing, romping, swinging, 

That give great joy to me 
While the Dinkey-Bird goes singing 

In the amfalula tree! 

There the gum-drops grow like cherries, 

And taffy's thick as peas — 
Caramels you pick like berries 

When, and where, and how you please; 
Big red sugar-plums are clinging 

To the cliffs beside that sea 
Where the Dinkey-Bird is singing 

In the amfalula tree. 

So when children shout and scamper 

And make merry all the day, 
When there 's naught to put a damper 

To the ardor of their play; 
When I hear their laughter ringing, 

Then I 'm sure as sure can be 
That the Dinkey-Bird is singing 

In the amfalula tree. 




276 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 

For the Dinkey-Bird's bravuras 

And staccatos are so sweet — 
His roulades, appoggiaturas, 

And robustos so complete, 
That the youth of every nation — 

Be they near or far away — 
Have especial delectation 

In that gladsome roundelay. 

Their eyes grow bright and brighter, 

Their lungs begin to crow, 
Their hearts get light and lighter, 

And their cheeks are all aglow; 
For an echo cometh bringing 

The news to all and me, 
That the Dinkey-Bird is singing 

In the amfalula tree. 

I 'm sure you like to go there 

To see your feathered friend — 
And so many goodies grow there 

You would like to comprehend! 
Speed, little dreams, your winging- 

To that land across the sea, 
Where the Dinkey -Bird is singing 

In the amfalula tree! 



THE DRUM 

I 'm a beautiful red, red drum, 

And I train with the soldier boys; 
As up the street we come, 

Wonderful is our noise! 
There 's Tom, and Jim, and Phil, 

And Dick, and Nat, and Fred, 
While Widow Cutler's Bill 

And I march on ahead, 



THE DRUM 277 

With a r-r-rat-tat-tat 

And a tum-titty-um-tum-tum — 
Oh, there 's bushels of fun in that 

For boys with a little red drum! 

The Injuns came last night 

While the soldiers were abed, 
And they gobbled a Chinese kite 

And off to the woods they fled! 
The woods are the cherry-trees 

Down in the orchard lot, 
And the soldiers are marching to seize 

The booty the Injuns got. 
With tum-titty-um-tum-tum, 

And r-r-rat-tat-tat, 
When soldiers marching come 

Injuns had better scat! 

Step up there, little Fred, 

And, Charley, have a mind! 
Jim is as far ahead 

As you two are behind! 
Ready with gun and sword 

Your valorous work to do — ■ 
Yonder the Injun horde 

Are lying in wait for you. 
And their hearts go pitapat 

When they hear the soldiers come 
With a r-r-rat-tat-tat 

And a tum-titty-um-tum-tum! 

Course it 's all in play ! 

The skulking Injun crew 
That hustled the kite away 

Are little white boys, like you! 
But "honest" or "just in fun," 

It is all the same to me; 
And, when the battle is won, 

Home once again march we 



278 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 



With a r-r-rat-tat-tat 

And tum-titty-um-tum-tum ; 
And there 's glory enough in that 

For the boys with their little red drum! 



THE DEAD BABE 

Last night, as my dear babe lay dead, 
In agony I knelt and said: 

"O God! what have I done, 
Or in what wise offended Thee, 
That thou shouldst take awa" from me 

My little son ? 

"Upon the thousand useless lives, 
Upon the guilt that vaunting thrives, 

Thy wrath were better spent! 
Why shouldst Thou take my little son — 
Why shouldst Thou vent Thy wrath upon 

This innocent?" 

Last night, as my dear babe lay dead, 
Before mine eyes the vision spread 

Of things that might have been: 
Licentious riot, cruel strife, 
Forgotten prayers, a wasted life 

Dark-red with sin! 

Then, with sweet music in the air, 
I saw another vision there: 

A Shepherd in whose keep 
A little lamb — my little child! 
Of worldly wisdom undefiled, 

Lay fast asleep! 

Last night, as my dear babe lay dead, 
In those two messages I read 



THE HAPPY HOUSEHOLD 279 

A wisdom manifest; 
And though my arms be childless now, 
I am content — to Him I bow 

Who knoweth best. 



THE HAPPY HOUSEHOLD 

It 's when the birds go piping and the daylight slowly breaks, 
That, clamoring for his dinner, our precious baby wakes; 
Then it 's sleep no more for baby, and it 's sleep no more for me, 
For, when he wants his dinner, why it 's dinner it must be! 
And of that lacteal fluid he partakes with great ado, 

While gran'ma laughs, 

And gran'pa laughs, 

And wife, she laughs, 

And I — well, I laugh, too! 

You 'd think, to see us carrying on about that little tad, 
That, like as not, that baby was the first we 'd ever had; 
But, sakes alive! he is n't, yet we people make a fuss 
As if the only baby in the world had come to us! 
And, morning, noon, and night-time, whatever he may do, 

Gran'ma, she laughs, 

Gran'pa, he laughs, 

Wife, she laughs, 

And I, of course, laugh, too! 

But once — a likely spell ago — when that poor little chick 
From teething or from some such ill of infancy fell sick, 
You would n't know us people as the same that went about 
A-feelin' good all over, just to hear him crow and shout; 
And, though the doctor poohed our fears and said he 'd pull him 
through, 

Old gran'ma cried, 

And gran'pa cried, 

And wife, she cried, 

And I — yes, I cried, too! 



280 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 

It makes us all feel good to have a baby on the place, 

With his everlastin' crowing and his dimpling, dumpling face; 

The patter of his pinky feet makes music everywhere, 

And when he shakes those fists of his, good-by to every care! 

No matter what our trouble is, when he begins to coo, 

Old gran' ma laughs, 

And gran'pa laughs, 

Wife, she laughs, 

And I — you bet, I laugh, too! 



SO, SO, ROCK-A-BY SO! 

So, so, rock-a-by so! 

Off to the garden where dreamikins grow; 

And here is a kiss on your winkyblink eyes, 

And here is a kiss on your dimpledown cheek, 
And here is a kiss for the treasure that lies 
In the beautiful garden 'way up in the skies 

Which you seek. 
Now mind these three kisses wherever you go — 
So, so, rock-a-by so! 

There 's one little fumfay who lives there, I know, 
For he dances all night where the dreamikins grow 
I send him this kiss on your droopydrop eyes, 

I send him this kiss on your rosyred cheek. 
And here is a kiss for the dream that shall rise 
When the fumfay shall dance in those far-away skies 

Which you seek. 
Be sure that you pay those three kisses you owe — 
So, so, rock-a-by so! 

And, by-low, as you rock-a-by go, 
l)on't forget mother who loveth you so! 
And here is her kiss on your weepydeep eyes, 
And here is her kiss on your peachypink cheek, 



THE SONG OF LUDDY-DUD 281 

And here is her kiss for the dreamland that lies 
Like a babe on the breast of those far-away skies 

Which you seek — ■ 
The blinkywink garden where dreamikins grow — 
So, so, rock-a-by so! 



THE SONG OF LUDDY-DUD 

A sunbeam comes a-creeping 

Into my dear one's nest, 
And sings to our babe a-sleeping 
The song that I love the best: 

"'T is little Luddy-Dud in the morning — 
'T is little Luddy-Dud at night; 
And all day long 
'T is the same sweet song 
Of that waddling, toddling, coddling little mite, Luddy-Dud." 

The bird to the tossing clover, 
The bee to the swaying bud, 
Keep singing that sweet song over 
Of wee little Luddy-Dud. 

" 'T is little Luddy-Dud in the morning — 
'T is little Luddy-Dud at night; 
And all day long 
'T is the same dear song 
Of that growing, crowing, knowing little sprite, Luddy-Dud." 

Luddv-Dud's cradle is swinging 

Where softly the night winds blow, 
And Luddy-Dud's mother is singing 
A song that is sweet and low; 

" 'T is little Luddy-Dud in the morning — 
'T is little Luddy-Dud at night; 
And all day long 
'T is the same sweet song 
Of my nearest and my dearest heart's delight, Luddy-Dud!" 



282 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 



THE DUEL 



The gingham dog and the calico cat 

Side by side on the table sat; 

'T was half-past twelve, and (what do you think!) 

Nor one nor t' other had slept a wink! 

The old Dutch clock and the Chinese plate 
Appeared to know as sure as fate 
There was going to be a terrible spat. 

(I was n't there; I simply state 

What was told to me by the Chinese plate!) 

The gingham dog went "Bow-wow-wow!" 
And the calico cat replied "Mee-ow!" 
The air was littered, an hour or so, 
With bits of gingham and calico, 

While the old Dutch clock in the chimney-place 
Up with its hands before its face, 
For it always dreaded a family row! 

(Now mind: I 'm only telling you 

What the old Dutch clock declares is true!) 

The Chinese plate looked very blue, 
And wailed, "Oh, dear! what shall we do!" 
But the gingham dog and the calico cat 
Wallowed this way and tumbled that, 
Employing every tooth and claw 
In the awfullest way you ever saw — 
And, oh! how the gingham and calico flew! 
(Don't fancy I exaggerate — 
I got my news from the Chinese plate!) 

Next morning, where the two had sat 
They found no trace of dog or cat; 
•And some folks think unto this day 
That burglars stole that pair away! 

But the truth about the cat and pup 



GOOD-CHILDREN STREET 283 

Is this: they ate each other up! 
Now what do you really think of that! 

(The old Dutch clock it told me so, 
And that is how I came to know.) 



GOOD-CHILDREN STREET 

There 's a dear little home in Good-Children street- 

My heart turneth fondly to-day 
Where tinkle of tongues and patter of feet 

Make sweetest of music at play; . 
Where the sunshine of love illumines each face 
And warms every heart in that old-fashioned place. 

For dear little children go romping about 

With dollies and tin tops and drums, 
And, my! how they frolic and scamper and shout 

Till bedtime too speedily comes! 
Oh, days they are golden and days they are fleet 
With little folk living in Good-Children street. 

See, here comes an army with guns painted red, 
And swords, caps, and plumes of all sorts; 

The captain rides gayly and proudly ahead 
On a stick-horse that prances and snorts! 

Oh, legions of soldiers you 're certain to meet — 

Nice make-believe soldiers — in Good-Children street. 

And yonder Odette wheel* her dolly about — 

Poor dolly! I 'm sure she is ill, 
For one of her blue china eyes has dropped out 

And her voice is asthmatic'ly shrill. 
Then, too, I observe she is minus her feet, 
Which causes much sorrow in Good-Children street. 

'T is so the dear children go romping about 
With dollies and banners and drums, 



284 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 

And I venture to say they are sadly put out 

When an end to their jubilee comes: 
Oh, days they are golden and days they are fleet 
With little folk living in Good-Children street! 

But when falleth night over river and town, 

Those little folk vanish from sight, 
And an angel all white from the sky cometh down 

And guardeth the babes through the night.- 
And singeth her lullabies tender and sweet 
To the dear little people in Good-Children street. 

Though elsewhere the world be o'erburdened with care, 

Though poverty fall to my lot, 
Though toil and vexation be always my share, 

What care I — they trouble me not! 
This thought maketh life ever joyous and sweet: 
There 's a dear little home in Good-Children street. 



THE DELECTABLE BALLAD OF THE WALLER LOT 

Up yonder in Buena Park 

There is a famous spot, 
In legend and in history 

Yclept the Waller Lot. 

There children play in daytime 

And lovers stroll by dark, 
For 't is the goodliest trysting-place 

In all Buena Park. 

Once on a time that beauteous maid, 

Sweet little Sissy Knott, 
Took out her pretty doll to walk 

Within the Waller Lot. 



THE DELECTABLE BALLAD OF THE WALLER LOT 285 

While thus she fared, from Ravenswood 

Came Injuns o'er the plain, 
And seized upon that beauteous maid 

And rent her doll in twain. 

Oh, 't was a piteous thing to hear 

Her lamentations wild; 
She tore her golden curls and cried: 

"My child! My child! My child!" 

Alas, what cared those Injun chiefs 

How bitterly wailed she? 
They never had been mothers, 

And they could not hope to be! 

"Have done with tears," they rudely quoth, 

And then they bound her hands; 
For they proposed to take her off 

To distant border lands. 

But, jov! from Mr. Eddv's barn 

Doth Willie Clow behold 
The sight that makes his hair rise up 

And all his blood run cold. 

He put his fingers in his mouth 

And whistled long and clear, 
And presently a goodly horde 

Of cowboys did appear. 

Cried Willie Clow: "My comrades bold, 

Haste to the Waller Lot, 
And rescue from that Injun band 

Our charming Sissy Knott! 

"Spare neither Injun buck nor squaw, 

But smite them hide and hair! 
Spare neither sex nor age nor size, 

And no condition spare!" 



286 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 

Then sped that cowboy band away, 
Full of revengeful wrath, 

And Kendall Evans rode ahead 
Upon a hickory lath. 

And next came gallant Dady Field 
And Willie's brother Kent, 

The Eddy boys and Robbie James, 
On murderous purpose bent. 

For they were much beholden to 
That maid — in sooth, the lot 

Were very, very much in love 
With charming Sissy Knott. 

What wonder? She was beauty's queen, 
And good beyond compare; 

Moreover, it was known she was 
Her wealthy father's heir! 

Now when the Injuns saw that band 
They trembled with affright, 

And yet they thought the cheapest thing 
To do was stay and fight. 

So sturdily they stood their ground, 
Nor would their prisoner yield, 

Despite the wrath of Willie Clow 
And gallant Dady Field. 

Oh, never fiercer battle raged 

Upon the Waller Lot, 
And never blood more freely flowed 

Than flowed for Sissy Knott! 

An Injun chief of monstrous size 
Got Kendall Evans down, 

And Robbie James was soon o'erthrown 
By one of great renown. 



THE DELECTABLE BALLAD OF THE WALLER LOT 287 

And Dady Field was sorely done, 

And Willie Clow was hurt, 
And all that gallant cowboy band 

Lay wallowing in the dirt. 

But still they strove with might and main 

Till all the Waller Lot 
Was strewn with hair and gouts of gore — 

All, all for Sissy Knott! 

Then cried the maiden in despair: 

"Alas, I sadly fear 
The battle and my hopes are lost, 

Unless some help appear!" 

Lo, as she spoke, she saw afar 

The rescuer looming up — 
The pride of all Buena Park, 

Clow's famous yellow pup! 

"Now, sick 'em, Don," the maiden cried, 
"Now, sick 'em, Don!" cried she; 

Obedient Don at once complied— 
As ordered, so did he. 

He sicked 'em all so passing well 

That, overcome by fright, 
The Indian horde gave up the fray 

And safety sought in flight. 

They ran and ran and ran and ran 

O'er valley, plain, and hill; 
And if they are not walking now, 

Why, then, they 're running still. 

The cowboys rose up from the dust 

With faces black and blue; 
"Remember, beauteous maid," said they, 

"We 've bled and died for you! 



288 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 

"And though we suffer grievously, 

We gladly hail the lot 
That brings us toils and pains and wounds 

For charming Sissy Knott!" 

But Sissy Knott still wailed and wept, 

And still her fate reviled; 
For who could patch her dolly up — 

Who, who could mend her child? 

Then out her doting mother came, 
And soothed her daughter then; 

"Grieve not, my darling, I will sew 
Your dolly up again!" 

Joy soon succeeded unto grief, 
And tears were soon dried up, 

And dignities were heaped upon 
Clow's noble yellow pup. 

Him all that goodly company 

Did as deliverer hail — 
They tied a ribbon round his neck, 

Another round his tail. 

And every anniversary day 

Upon the Waller Lot 
They celebrate the victory won 

For charming Sissy Knott. 

And I, the poet of these folk, 

Am ordered to compile 
This truly famous history 

In good old ballad style. 

Which having done as to have earned 
The sweet rewards of fame, 

In what same style I did begin 
I now shall end the same. 



THE STORK 289 

So let us sing: Long live the King, 

Long live the Queen and Jack, 
Long live the ten-spot and the ace, 

And also all the pack. 



THE STORK 

Last night the Stork came stalking, 

And, Stork, beneath your wing 
Lay, lapped in dreamless slumber, 

The tiniest little thing! 
From Babyland, out yonder 

Beside a silver sea, 
You brought a priceless treasure 

As gift to mine and me! 

Last night my dear one listened — 

And, wife, you knew the cry — 
The dear old Stork has sought our home 

A many times gone by! 
And in your gentle bosom 

I found the pretty thing 
That from the realm out yonder 

Our friend the Stork did bring. 

Last night a babe awakened, 

And, babe, how strange and new 
Must seem the home and people 

The Stork has brought you to; 
And yet methinks you like them — 

You neither stare nor weep, 
But closer to my dear one 

You cuddle, and you sleep! 

Last night my heart grew fonder — 

O happy heart of mine, 
Sing of the inspirations 

That round my pathway shine! 



290 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 

And sing your sweetest love-song 
To this dear nestling wee 

The Stork from 'Way-Out- Yonder 
Hath brought to mine and me! 



THE BOTTLE-TREE 

A bottle-tree bloometh in Winkyway land — 

Heigh-ho for a bottle, I say! 
A snug little berth in that ship I demand 

That rocketh the Bottle-Tree babies away 

Where the Bottle-Tree bloometh by night and by day 
And reacheth its fruit to each wee, dimpled hand; 

You take of that fruit as much as you list, 

For colic 's a nuisance that doesn't exist! 
So cuddle me close, and cuddle me fast, 

And cuddle me snug in my cradle away, 
For I hunger and thirst for that precious repast — 

Heigho-ho for a bottle, I say! 

The Bottle-Tree bloometh by night and by day! 

Heigh-ho for Winkyway land! 
And Bottle-Tree fruit (as I 've heard people say) 

Makes bellies of Bottle-Tree babies expand — 

And that is a trick I would fain understand! 
Heigh-ho for a bottle to-day! 

And heigh-ho for a bottle to-night — 

A bottle of milk that is creamy and white! 
So cuddle me close, and cuddle me fast, 

And cuddle me snug in my cradle away, 
For I hunger and thirst for that precious repast — - 

Heigh-ho for a bottle, I say! 



GOOGLY-GOO 291 



GOOGLY-GOO 

Of mornings, bright and early, 

When the lark is on the wing 
And the robin in the maple 

Hops from her nest to sing, 
From yonder cheery chamber 

Cometh a mellow coo — 
'T is the sweet, persuasive treble 

Of my little Googly-Goo! 

The sunbeams hear his music, 

And they seek his little bed, 
And they dance their prettiest dances 

Round his golden curly head: 
Schottisches, galops, minuets, 

Gavottes and waltzes, too, 
Dance they unto the music 

Of my googling Googly-Goo. 

My heart — my heart it leapeth 

To hear that treble tone; 
What music like thy music, 

My darling and mine own! 
And patiently — yes, cheerfully 

I toil the long day through — 
My labor seemeth lightened 

By the song of Googly-Goo! 

I may not see his antics, 

Nor kiss his dimpled cheek: 
I may not smooth the tresses 

The sunbeams love to seek; 
It mattereth not — the echo 

Of his sweet, persuasive coo 
Recurreth to remind me 

Of my little Googly-Goo. 



292 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 

And when I come at evening, 

I stand without the door 
And patiently I listen 

For that dear sound once more; 
And oftentimes I wonder, 

"Oh, God! what should I do 
If any ill should happen 

To my little Googly-Goo!" 

Then in affright I call him — 

I hear his gleeful shouts! 
Begone, ye dread forebodings — 

Begone, ye killing doubts! 
For, with my arms about him, 

My heart warms through and through 
With the oogling and the googling 

Of my little Googly-Goo! 



THE BENCH-LEGGED FYCE 

Speakin' of dorgs, my bench-legged fyce 
Hed most o' the virtues, an' nary a vice. 
Some folks called him Sooner, a name that arose 
From his predisposition to chronic repose; 
But, rouse his ambition, he couldn't be beat — 
Yer bet yer he got thar on all his four feet! 

Mos' dorgs hez some forte — like huntin' an' such, 
But the sports o' the field didn't bother him much; 
Wuz just a plain dorg, an' contented to be 
On peaceable terms with the neighbors an' me; 
Used to fiddle an' squirm, and grunt "Oh, how nice! : 
When I tickled the back of that bench-legged fyce! 

He wuz long in the bar'l, like a fyce oughter be; 

His color wuz yaller as ever you see; 

His tail, curlin' upward, wuz long, loose, an' slim — 



THE BENCH-LEGGED FYCE 293 

When he didn't wag it, why, the tail it wagged him! 
His legs wuz so crooked, my bench-legged pup 
Wuz as tall settin' down as he wuz standin' up! 

He 'd lie by the stove of a night an' regret 

The various vittles an' things he had et; 

When a stranger, most likely a tramp, come along, 

He 'd lift up his voice in significant song — 

You wondered, by gum! how there ever wuz space 

In that bosom o' his'n to hold so much bass! 

Of daytimes he 'd sneak to the road an' lie down, 

An' tackle the country dorgs comin' to town; 

By common consent he wuz boss in St. Jo, 

For what he took hold of he never let go! 

An' a dude that come courtin' our girl left a slice 

Of his white flannel suit with our bench-legged fyce! 

He wuz good to us kids — when we pulled at his fur 
Or twisted his tail he would never demur- 
He seemed to enjoy all our play an' our chaff, 
For his tongue 'u'd hang out an' he 'd laff an' he'd laff; 
An' once, when the Hobart boy fell through the ice, 
He wuz drug clean ashore by that bench-legged fyce! 

We all hev our choice, an' you, like the rest, 
Allow that the dorg which you 've got is the best; 
I wouldn't give much for the boy 'at grows up 
With no friendship subsistin' 'tween him an' a pup! 
When a fellow gits old — I tell you it 's nice 
To think of his youth and his bench-legged fyce! 

To think of the springtime 'way back in St. Jo — 
Of the peach-trees abloom an' the daises ablow; 
To think of the play in the medder an' grove, 
When little legs wrassled an' little han's strove; 
To think of the loyalty, valor, an' truth 
Of the friendships that hallow the season of youth! 



294 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 



LITTLE MISS BRAG 



Little Miss Brag has much to say 
To the rich little lady from over the way, 
And the rich little lady puts out a lip 
As she looks at her own white, dainty slip, 
And wishes that she could wear a gown 
As pretty as gingham of faded brown! 
For little Miss Brag she lays much stress 
On the privileges of a gingham dress — 

"Aha, 

Oho!" 

The rich little lady from over the way 
Has beautiful dolls in vast array; 
Yet she envies the raggedy home-made doll 
She hears our little Miss Brag extol. 
For the raggedy doll can fear no hurt 
From wet, or heat, or tumble, or dirt! 
Her nose is inked, and her mouth is, too, 
And one eye 's black and the other 's blue — 

"Aha, 

Oho!" 

The rich little lady goes out to ride 
With footmen standing up outside, 
Yet wishes that, sometimes, after dark 
Her father would trundle her in the park; — 
That, sometimes, her mother would sing the things 
Little Miss Brag says her mother sings 
When through the attic window streams 
The moonlight full of golden dreams — 

"Aha, 

Oho!" 

Yes, little Miss Brag has much to say 
To the rich little lady from over the way; 
And yet who knows but from her heart 
Often the bitter sighs upstart — 



THE HUMMING TOP 295 

Uprise to lose their burn and sting 

In the grace of the tongue that loves to sing 

Praise of the treasures all its own! 

So I 've come to love that treble tone — 

"Aha, 

Oho!" 



THE HUMMING TOP 

The top it hummeth a sweet, sweet song 

To my dear little boy at play — 
Merrily singeth all day long, 

As it spinneth and spinneth away. 

And my dear little boy 

He laugheth with joy 
When he heareth the monotone 

Of that busy thing 

That loveth to sing 
The song that is all its own. 

Hold fast the string and wind it tight, 

That the song be loud and clear; 
Now hurl the top with all your might 
Upon the banquette here; 

And straight from the string 

The joyous thing 
Boundeth and spinneth along, 

And it whirrs and it chirrs 

And it birrs and it purrs 
Ever its pretty song. 

Will ever my dear little boy grow old, 

As some have grown before? 
Will ever his heart feel faint and cold, 
When he heareth the songs of yore? 
Will ever this toy 
Of my dear little boy, 



296 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 

When the years have worn away, 
Sing sad and low 
Of the long ago, 

As it singeth to me to-day? 



LADY BUTTON-EYES 

When the busy day is done, 
And my weary little one 
Rocketh gently to and fro; 
When the night winds softly blow, 
And the crickets in the glen 
Chirp and chirp and chirp again; 
When upon the haunted green 
Fairies dance around their queen — 
Then from yonder misty skies 
Cometh Lady Button-Eyes. 

Through the murk and mist and gloam 
To our quiet, cozy home, 
Where to singing, sweet and low, 
Rocks a cradle to and fro; 
Where the clock's dull monotone 
Telleth of the day that 's done; 
Where the moonbeams hover o'er 
Playthings sleeping on the floor — 
Where my weary wee one lies 
Cometh Lady Button-Eyes. 

Cometh like a fleeting ghost 
From some distant eerie coast; 
Never footfall can you hear 
As that spirit fareth near-- 
Never whisper, never word 
From that shadow-queen is heard. 



THE RIDE TO BUMPVILLE 297 

In ethereal raiment dight, 
From the realm of fay and sprite 
In the depth of yonder skies 
Cometh Lady Button-Eyes. 

Layeth she her hands upon 

My dear weary little one, 

And those white hands overspread 

Like a veil the curly head, 

Seem to fondle and caress 

Every little silken tress; 

Then she smooths the eyelids down 

Over those two eyes of brown — 

In such soothing, tender wise 

Cometh Lady Button-Eyes. 

Dearest, feel upon your brow 
That caressing magic now; 
For the crickets in the glen 
Chirp and chirp and chirp again, 
While upon the haunted green 
Fairies dance around their queen, 
And the moonbeams hover o'er 
Playthings sleeping on the floor — 
Hush, my sweet! from yonder skies 
Cometh Lady Button-Eyes! 



THE RIDE TO BUMPVILLE 

Play that my knee was a calico mare 
Saddled and bridled for Bumpville; 
Leap to the back of this steed, if you dare, 

And gallop away to Bumpville! 
I hope you '11 be sure to sit fast in your seat, 
For this calico mare is prodigiously fleet, 
And many adventures you 're likely to meet 
As you journey along to Bumpville. 



298 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 

This calico mare both gallops and trots 
While whisking you off to Bumpville; 
She paces, she shies, and she stumbles, in spots, 

In the tortuous road to Bumpville; 
And sometimes this strangely mercurial steed 
Will suddenly stop and refuse to proceed, 
Which, all will admit, is vexatious indeed, 
When one is en route to Bumpville! 

She 's scared of the cars when the engine goes "Toot!" 

Down by the crossing at Bumpville; 
You 'd better look out for that treacherous brute 

Bearing you off to Bumpville! 
With a snort she rears up on her hindermost heels, 
And executes jigs and Virginia reels — 
Words fail to explain how embarrassed one feels 

Dancing so wildly to Bumpville! 

It 's bumpy ty bump and it 's jiggytyjog, 

Journeying on to Bumpville; 
It 's over the hilltop and down through the bog 

You ride on your way to Bumpville; 
It 's rattletybang over boulder and stump, 
There are rivers to ford, there are fences to jump, 
And the corduroy road it goes bumpytybump, 

Mile after mile to Bumpville! 

Perhaps you '11 observe it 's no easy thing 

Making the journey to Bumpville, 
So I think, on the whole, it were prudent to bring 

An end to this ride to Bumpville; 
For, though she has uttered no protest or plaint, 
The calico mare must be blowing and faint — 
What 's more to the point, I 'm bio wed if I ain't! 

So play we have got to Bumpville! 



THE BROOK 299 



THE BROOK 

I looked in the brook and saw a face — 

Heigh-ho, but a child was I! 
There were rushes and willows in that place, 

And they clutched at the brook as the brook ran by; 
And the brook it ran its own sweet way, 
As a child doth run in heedless play, 
And as it ran I heard it say: 

"Hasten with me 

To the roistering sea . 

That is wroth with the flame of the morning sky!" 

I look in the brook and see a face — 

Heigh-ho, but the years go by! 
The rushes are dead in the old-time place, 

And the willows I knew when a child was I. 
And the brook it seemeth to me to say, 
As ever it stealeth on its way — 
Solemnly now, and not in play: 

"Oh, come with me 
To the slumbrous sea 

That is gray with the peace of the evening sky!" 

Heigh-ho, but the years go by — 
I would to God that a child were I! 



PICNIC-TIME 

It 's June ag'in, an' in my soul I feel the fillin' joy 
That 's sure to come this time o' year to every little boy; 
For, every June, the Sunday-schools at picnics may be seen, 
Where "fields beyont the swellin' floods stand dressed in livin' 

green"; 
Where little girls are skeered to death with spiders, bugs, and ants, 
An' little boys get grass-stains on their go-to-meetin' pants. 
It 's June ag'in, an' with it all what happiness is mine — 
There 's goin' to be a picnic, an' I 'm goin' to jine! 



300 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 

One year I jined the Baptists, an' goodness! how it rained! 
(But granpa says that that 's the way "baptizo" is explained.) 
And once I jined the Tiscopils an' had a heap o' fun — 
But the boss of all the picnics was the Presbyteriun! 
They had so many puddin's, sallids, sandwidges, an' pies, 
That a feller wisht his stummick was as hungry as his eyes! 
Oh, yes, the eatin' Presbyteriuns give yer is so fine 
That when they have a picnic, you bet / 'm goin' to jine! 

But at this time the Methodists have special claims on me, 

For they 're goin' to give a picnic on the 21st, D. V,; 

Why should a liberal Universalist like me object 

To share the joys of fellowship with every friendly sect? 

However het'rodox their articles of faith elsewise may be, 

Their doctrine of fried chick'n is a savin' grace to me! 

So on the 21st of June, the weather bein' fine, 

They 're goin' to give a picnic, and I 'm goin' to jine! 



SHUFFLE-SHOON AND AMBER-LOCKS 

Shuffle-shoon and Amber-Locks 
Sit together, building blocks; 

Shufrle-Shoon is old and gray, 
Amber-Locks a little child, 
But together at their play 

Age and Youth are reconciled, 
And with sympathetic glee 
Build their castles fair to see. 

"When I grow to be a man" 
(So the wee one's prattle ran), 
"I shall build a castle so — 

With a gateway broad and grand; 
Here a pretty vine shall grow, 

There a soldier guard shall stand; 
And the tower shall be so high, 
Folks will wonder, by and by!" 



THE SHUT-EYE TRAIN 301 

Shuffle-Shoon quoth: "Yes, I know; 
Thus I builded long ago! 

Here a gate and there a wall, 

Here a window, there a door; 
Here a steeple wondrous tall 
Riseth ever more and more! 
But the years have levelled low 
What I builded long ago!" 

So they gossip at their play, 
Heedless of the fleeting day; 

One speaks of the Long Ago 

Where his dead hopes buried lie; 
One with chubby cheeks aglow 
Prattleth of the By and By; 
Side by side, they build their blocks — 
Shuffle-Shoon and Amber-Locks. 



THE SHUT-EYE TRAIN 

Come, my little one, with me! 
There are wondrous sights to see 

As the evening shadows fall; 

In your pretty cap and gown, 
Don't detain 
The Shut-Eye train — 

"Ting-a-ling!" the bell it goeth, 

"Toot-toot!" the whistle bloweth, 
And we hear the warning call: 
"All aboard for Shut-Eye Toicnl" 

Over hill and over plain 

Soon will speed the Shut-Eye train! 

Through the blue where bloom the stars 
And the Mother Moon looks down 
We '11 away 
To land of Fay— 



302 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 

Oh, the sights that we shall see there! 
Come,- my little one, with me there — 
'T is a goodly train of cars — 

All aboard for S hut-Eye Town! 

Swifter than a wild bird's flight, 
Through the realms of fleecy light 

We shall speed and speed away! 

Let the Night in envy frown — 
What care we 
How wroth she be! 

To the Balow-land above us, 

To the Balow-folk who love us, 
Let us hasten while we may — 
All aboard for S hut-Eye Town! 

Shut-Eye Town is passing fair — 
Golden dreams await us there; 

We shall dream those dreams, my dear, 
Till the Mother Moon goes down — 
See unfold 
Delights untold! 
And in those mysterious places 
We shall see beloved faces 
And beloved voices hear 
In the grace of Shut-Eye Town. 

Heavy are your eyes, my sweet, 

Weary are your little feet — 
Nestle closer up to me 
In your pretty cap and gown; 
Don't detain 
The Shut-Eye train! 
"Ting-a-ling!" the bell it goeth, 
" Toot-toot!" the whistle bloweth— 

Oh, the sights that we shall see! 

All aboard for Shut-Eye Town! 



LITTLE-OH-DEAR 303 



LITTLE-OH-DEAR 

See, what a wonderful garden is here, 
Planted and trimmed for my Little-Oh-Dear! 
Posies so gaudy and grass of such brown — 
Search ye the country and hunt ye the town 
And never ye '11 meet with a garden so queer 
As this one I 've made for my Little-Oh-Dear! 

Marigolds white and buttercups blue, 
Lilies all dabbled with honey and dew, 
The cactus that trails over trellis and wall, 
Roses and pansies and violets — all 
Make proper obeisance and reverent cheer 
When into her garden steps Little-Oh-Dear. 

And up at the top of that lavender-tree 

A silver-bird singeth as only can she; 

For, ever and only, she singeth the song 

"I love you — I love you!" the happy day long; — 

Then the echo — the echo that smiteth me here! 

"I love you, I love you," my Little-Oh-Dear! 

The garden may wither, the silver-bird fly — 

But what careth my little precious, or I ? 

From her pathway of flowers that in springtime upstart 

She walketh the tenderer way in my heart; 

And, oh, it is always the summer-time here 

With that song of "I love you," my Little-Oh-Dear! 



THE FLY-AWAY HORSE 

Oh, a wonderful horse is the Fly-Away Horse — 
Perhaps you have seen him before; 

Perhaps, while you slept, his shadow has swept 
Through the moonlight that floats on the floor. 



304 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 

For it 's only at night, when the stars twinkle bright, 

That the Fly-Away Horse, with a neigh 
And a pull at his rein and a toss of his mane, 
Is up on his heels and away! 
The Moon in the sky, 
As he gallopeth by, 
Cries: "Oh! what a marvellous sight!" 
And the Stars in dismay 
Hide their faces away 
In the lap of old Grandmother Night. 

It is yonder, out yonder, the Fly-Away Horse 

Speedeth ever and ever away — 
Over meadows and lanes, over mountains and plains, 

Over streamlets that sing at their play; 
And over the sea like a ghost sweepeth he, 

While the ships they go sailing below, 
And he speedeth so fast that the men at the mast 
Adjudge him some portent of woe. 
"What ho there!" they cry, 
As he flourishes by 
With a whisk of his beautiful tail; 
And the fish in the sea 
Are as scared as can be, 
From the nautilus up to the whale! 

And the Fly-Away Horse seeks those far-away lands 

You little folk dream of at night — 
Where candy-trees grow, and honey-brooks flow, 

And corn-fields with popcorn are white; 
And the beasts in the wood are ever so good 

To children who visit them there — 
What glory astride of a lion to ride, 
Or to wrestle around with a bear! 
The monkeys, they say: 
"Come on, let us play," 
And they frisk in the cocoanut-trees : 
While the parrots, that cling 
To the peanut- vines, sing 
Or converse with comparative ease! 



SWING HIGH AND SWING LOW 305 

Off! scamper to bed — you shall ride him to-night! 

For, as soon as you 've fallen asleep, 
With a jubilant neigh he shall bear you away 

Over forest and hillside and deep! 
But tell us, my dear, all you see and you hear 

In those beautiful lands over there, 
Where the Fly-Away Horse wings his far-away course 
With the wee one consigned to his care. 
Then grandma will cry 
In amazement: "Oh, my!" 
And she '11 think it could never be so; 
And only we two 
Shall know it is true — 
You and I, little precious! shall know! 



SWING HIGH AND SWING LOW 

Swing high and swing low 

While the breezes they blow — 
It 's off for a sailor thy father would go; 
And it 's here in the harbor, in sight of the sea, 
He hath left his wee babe with my song and with me: 

" Siving high and string low 

While the breezes they blow!" 

Swing high and swing low 

While the breezes they blow — 
It 's oh for the waiting as weary days go! 
And it 's oh for the heartache that smiteth me when 
I sing my song over and over again: 

"Swing high and swing low 

While the breezes they blow!" 

"Swing high and swing low" — 
The sea singeth so, 
And it waileth anon in its ebb and its flow; 



306 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 

And a sleeper sleeps on to that song of the sea 
Nor recketh he ever of mine or of me! 
"Swing high and swing low 
While the breezes they blow — 
'T was off for a sailor thy father would go!" 



WHEN I WAS A BOY 

Up in the attic where I slept 

When I was a boy, a little boy, 
In through the lattice the moonlight crept, 
Bringing a tide of dreams that swept 
Over the low, red trundle-bed, 
Bathing the tangled curly head, 
While moonbeams played at hide-and-seek 
With the dimples on the sun-browned cheek — 
When I was a boy, a little boy! 

And, oh! the dreams — the dreams I dreamed! 

When I was a boy, a little boy! 
For the grace that through the lattice streamed 
Over my folded eyelids seemed 
To have the gift of prophecy, 
And to bring me glimpses of times to be 
When manhood's clarion seemed to call — 
Ah! that was the sweetest dream of all, 
When I was a boy, a little boy! 

I 'd like to sleep where I used to sleep 

When I was a boy, a little boy! 
For in at the lattice the moon would peep, 
Bringing her tide of dreams to sweep 
The crosses and griefs of the years away 
From the heart that is weary and faint to-day; 
.And those dreams should give me back again 
A peace I have never known since then — 

When I was a boy, a little boy! 



AT PLAY 307 



AT PLAY 



Play that you are mother dear, 

And play that papa is your beau; 
Play that we sit in the corner here, 

Just as we used to, long ago. 
Playing so, we lovers two 

Are just as happy as we can be, 
And I '11 say "I love you" to you, 

And you say "I love you" to me! 
"I love you" we both shall say, 
All in earnest and all in play. 

Or, play that you are that other one 

That some time came, and went away; 
And play that the light of years agone 

Stole into my heart again to-day! 
Playing that you are the one I knew 

In the days that never again may be, 
I '11 say "I love you" to you, 

And you say "I love you" to me! 
"I love you!" my heart shall say 
To the ghost of the past come back to-day! 

Or, play that you sought this nestling-place 

For your own sweet self, with that dual guise 
Of your pretty mother in your face 

And the look of that other in your eyes! 
So the dear old loves shall live anew 

As I hold my darling on my knee, 
And I '11 say "I love you" to you, 

And you say "I love you" to me! 
Oh, many a strange, true thing we say 
And do when we pretend to play, 



308 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 



A VALENTINE 



Go, Cupid, and my sweetheart tell 

I love her well. 

Yes, though she tramples on my heart 

And rends that bleeding thing apart; 

And though she rolls a scornful eye 

On doting me when I go by; 

And though she scouts at everything 

As tribute unto her I bring — 

Apple, banana, caramel, — 

Haste, Cupid, to my love and tell, 

In spite of all, I love her well! 

And further say I have a sled 
Cushioned in blue and painted red! 
The groceryman has promised I 
Can "hitch" whenever he goes by — 
Go, tell her that, and, furthermore, 
Apprise my sweetheart that a score 
Of other little girls implore 
The boon of riding on that sled 
Painted and hitched, as aforesaid; — 
And tell her, Cupid, only she 
Shall ride upon that sled with me! 
Tell her this all, and further tell 
I love her well. 



LITTLE ALL-ALONEY 

Little all-aloney's feet 
Pitter-patter in the hall, 
And his mother runs to meet 
And to kiss her toddling sweet, 
Ere perchance he fall. 



LITTLE ALL-ALONEY 309 

He is, oh, so weak and small! 

Yet what danger shall he fear 

When his mother hovereth near, 
And he hears her cheering call: 
"All-Aloney"? 

Little All-Aloney's face 

It is all aglow with glee, 
As around that romping-place 
At a terrifying pace 

Lungeth, plungeth he! 
And that hero seems to be 

All unconscious of our cheers — 

Only one dear voice he hears 
Calling reassuringly: 

"All-Aloney!" 

Though his legs bend with their load, 

Though his feet they seem so small 
That you cannot help forebode 
Some disastrous episode 

In that noisy hall, 
Neither threatening bump nor fall 

Little All-Aloney fears, 

But with sweet bravado steers 
Whither comes that cheery call: 
"All-Aloney!" 

Ah, that in the years to come, 

When he shares of Sorrow's store, — 

When his feet are chill and numb, 

When his cross is burdensome, 
And his heart is sore: 

Would that he could hear once more 
The gentle voice he used to hear — 
Divine with mother love and cheer — 

Calling from yonder spirit shore: 
"All, all alone!" 



310 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 



SEEIN' THINGS 

I ain't afeard uv snakes, or toads, or bugs, or worms, or mice, 

An' things 'at girls are skeered uv I think are awful nice! 

I 'm pretty brave, I guess; an' yet I hate to go to bed, 

For, when I 'm tucked up warm an' snug an' when my prayers 

are said, 
Mother tells me " Happy dreams!" and takes away the light, 
An' leaves me lyin' all alone an' seein' things at night! 

Sometimes they 're in the corner, sometimes they 're by the door, 
Sometimes they 're all a-standin' in the middle uv the floor; 
Sometimes they are a-sittin' down, sometimes they 're walkin' 

round 
So softly an' so creepylike they never make a sound! 
Sometimes they are as black as ink, an' other times they 're white — 
But the color ain't no difference when you see things at night! 

Once, when I licked a feller 'at had just moved on our street, 

An' father sent me up to bed without a bite to eat, 

I woke up in the dark an' saw things standin' in a row, 

A-lookin' at me cross-eyed an' p'intin' at me — so! 

Oh, my! I wuz so skeered that time I never slep' a mite — 

It 's almost alluz when I 'm bad I see things at night! 

Lucky thing I ain't a girl, or I 'd be skeered to death! 
Bein' I 'm a boy, I duck my head an' hold my breath; 
An' I am, oh! so sorry I 'm a naughty boy, an' then 
I promise to be better an' I say my prayers again! 
Gran'ma tells me that 's the only way to make it right 
When a feller has been wicked an' sees things at night! 

An' so, when other naughty boys would coax me into sin, 
I try to skwush the Tempter's voice 'at urges me within; 
An' when they 's pie for supper, or cakes 'at 's big an' nice, 
I want to — but I do not pass my plate f'r them things twice! 
No, ruther let Starvation wipe me slowly out o' sight 
Than I should keep a-livin' on an' seein' things at night! 



THE CUNNIN' LITTLE THING 311 

THE CUNNIN' LITTLE THING 

When baby wakes of mornings, 
Then it 's wake, ye people all! 
For another day 
Of song and play 
Has come at our darling's call! 
And, till she gets her dinner, 
She makes the welkin ring, 
And she won't keep still till she 's had her fill — 
The cunnin' little thing! 

When baby goes a-walking, 
Oh, how her paddies fly! 
For that 's the way 
The babies say 
To other folk "by-by"; 
The trees bend down to kiss her, 
And the birds in rapture sing, 
As there she stands and waves her hands — 
The cunnin' little thing! 

When baby goes a-rocking 
In her bed at close of day, 
At hide-and-seek 
On her dainty cheek 
The dreams and the dimples play; 
Then it 's sleep in the tender kisses 

The guardian angels bring 
From the Far Above to my sweetest love — 
You cunnin' little thing! 



THE DOLL'S W r OOING 

The little French doll was a dear little doll 
Tricked out in the sweetest of dresses; 
Her eyes were of hue 
A most delicate blue 



312 POEMS OP CHILDHOOD 

And dark as the night were her tresses; 
Her dear little mouth was fluted and red, 
And this little French doll was so very well bred 
That whenever accosted her little mouth said: 
' ' Mamma ! mamma ! ' ' 

The stockinet doll, with one arm and one leg, 
Had once been a handsome young fellow, 
But now he appeared 
Rather frowzy and bleared 
In his torn regimentals of yellow; 
Yet his heart gave a curious thump as he lay 
In the little toy cart near the window one day 
And heard the sweet voice of that French dolly say: 
"Mamma! mamma!" 

He listened so long and he listened so hard 
That anon he grew ever so tender, 
For it 's everywhere known 
That the feminine tone 
Gets away with all masculine gender! 
He up and he wooed her with soldierly zest 
But all she 'd reply to the love he professed 
Were these plaintive words (which perhaps you have guessed) 
"Mamma! mamma!" 

Her mother — a sweet little lady of five — 
Vouchsafed her parental protection, 
And although stockinet 
Was n't blue-blooded, yet 
She really could make no objection! 
So soldier and dolly were wedded one day, 
And a moment ago, as I journeyed that way, 
I 'm sure that I heard a wee baby voice say: 
"Mamma! mamma!" 



INSCRIPTION FOR MY LITTLE SON'S SILVER PLATE 313 



INSCRIPTION FOR MY LITTLE SON'S 
SILVER PLATE 

When thou dost eat from off this plate, 
I charge thee be thou temperate; 
Unto thine elders at the board 
Do thou sweet reverence accord; 
And, though to dignity inclined, 
Unto the serving- folk be kind; 
Be ever mindful of the poor, 
Nor turn them hungry from the door; 
And unto God, for health and food 
And all that in thy life is good, 
Give thou thy heart in gratitude. 



FISHERMAN JIM'S KIDS 

Fisherman Jim lived on the hill 

With his bonnie wife an' his little boys; 

'T wuz "Blow, ye winds, as blow ye will — 
Naught we reck of your cold and noise!" 
For happy and warm were he an' his, 

And he dandled his kids upon his knee 

To the song of the sea. 

Fisherman Jim would sail all day, 

But, when come night, upon the sands 

His little kids ran from their play, 
Callin' to him an' wavin' their hands; 

Though the wind was fresh and the sea was high, 

He 'd hear 'em — you bet — above the roar 

Of the waves on the shore! 

Once Fisherman Jim sailed into the bay 
As the sun went down in a cloudy sky, 
And never a kid saw he at play, 



314 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 

And he listened in vain for the welcoming cry. 
In his little house he learned it all, 
And he clinched his hands and he bowed his head- 
"The fever!" they said. 

'T wuz a pitiful time for Fisherman Jim, 
With them darlin's a-dyin' afore his eyes, 

A-stretchin' their wee hands out to him 

An' a-breakin' his heart with the old-time cries 
He had heerd so often upon the sands; 

For they thought they wuz helpin' his boat ashore- 

Till they spoke no more. 

But Fisherman Jim lived on and on, 
Castin' his nets an' sailin' the sea; 

As a man will live when his heart is gone, 
Fisherman Jim lived hopelessly, 

Till once in those years they come an' said: 

"Old Fisherman Jim is powerful sick — 

Go to him, quick!" 

Then Fisherman Jim says he to me: 

"It 's a long, long cruise — you understand — 

But over beyont the ragin' sea 

I kin see my boys on the shinin' sand 
Waitin' to help this oF hulk ashore, 

Just as they used to — ah, mate, you know! — 

In the long ago." 

No, sir! he wuz n't afeard to die; 

For all night long he seemed to see 
His little boys of the days gone by, 

An' to hear sweet voices forgot by me! 
An' just as the mornin' sun come up — 
"They 're holdin' me by the hands!" he cried, 
An' so he died. 



FIDDLE-DEE-DEE " 315 



" FIDDLE-DEE-DEE " 

There once was a bird that lived up in a tree, 

And all he could whistle was " Fiddle-dee-dee " — 

A very provoking, unmusical song 

For one to be whistling the summer day long! 

Yet always contented and busy was he 

With that vocal recurrence of "Fiddle-dee-dee." 

Hard by lived a brave little soldier of four, 
That weird iteration repented him sore; 
"I prithee, Dear-Mother-Mine! fetch me my gun, 
For, by our St. Didy! the deed must be done 
That shall presently rid all creation and me 
Of that ominous bird and his 'Fiddle-dee-dee'!" 

Then out came Dear-Mother-Mine, bringing her son 

His awfully truculent little red gun; 

The stock was of pine and the barrel of tin, 

The "bang" it came out where the bullet went in — 

The right kind of weapon I think you '11 agree 

For slaying all fowl that go "Fiddle-dee-dee"! 

The brave little soldier quoth never a word, 

But he up and he drew a straight bead on that bird; 

And, while that vain creature provokingly sang, 

The gun it went off with a terrible bang! 

Then loud laughed the youth — "By my Bottle," cried he, 

"I have put a quietus on ' Fiddle-dee-dee' !" 

Out came then Dear-Mother-Mine, saying: "My son, 
Right well have you wrought with your little red gun! 
Hereafter no evil at all need I fear, 
With such a brave soldier as You-My-Love here!" 
She kissed the dear boy. 

[The bird in the tree 
Continued to whistle his "Fiddle-dee-dee"!] 



316 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 



OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY 

Over the hills and far away, 

A little boy steals from his morning play 

And under the blossoming apple-tree 

He lies and he dreams of the things to be: 

Of battles fought and of victories won, 

Of wrongs o'erthrown and of great deeds done — 

Of the valor that he shall prove some day, 

Over the hills and far away — 

Over the hills, and far away! 

Over the hills and far away 
It 's, oh, for the toil the livelong day! 
But it mattereth not to the soul aflame 
With a love for riches and power and fame! 
On, O man! while the sun is high — 
On to the certain joys that lie 
Yonder where blazeth the noon of day, 
Over the hills and far away — 

Over the hills, and far away! 

Over the hills and far away, 

An old man lingers at close of day; 

Now that his journey is almost done, 

His battles fought and his victories won — 

The old-time honesty and truth, 

The trustfulness and the friends of youth, 

Home and mother — where are they? 

Over the hills and far away — 

Over the years, and far away! 



CRADLE SONG 

The twinkling stars, that stud the skies 
Throughout the quiet night, 

Are only precious little eyes 
Of babies fair and bright; 



CRADLE SONG 317 

For, when the babies are asleep, 

An angel comes and takes 
Their little eyes to guard and keep 

Until the morning breaks. 
So, in the sky and on the earth, 

Those little eyes divine, 
With quiet love and twinkling mirth, 

Through all the darkness shine. 
The golden and majestic moon 

Beholds these baby eyes, 
And, mother-like, she loves to croon 

Her softest lullabies, 

Her gentlest hushabies. 

The tiny flow'rs the baby knew 

Throughout the noisy day, 
Now ope their blossoms to the dew 

And, smiling, seem to say: 
"We know you, stars, serene and small, 

Up yonder in the skies — 
You are no little stars at all — 

You 're only baby eyes!" 
The lambkins scamper to and fro 

And chase the night away, 
For they are full of joy to know 

The stars behold their play. 
The wind goes dancing, free and light, 

O'er tree and hilltop high. 
And murmurs all the happy night 

The sweetest lullaby, 

The gentlest hushaby. 

So let thy little eyelids close 

Like flow'rs at set of sun. 
And tranquil be thy soul's repose, 

My precious weary one! 
The still and melancholy night 

Is envious of thine eyes, 
And longs to see their glorious light 

In yonder azure skies. 



318 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 

The daisies wonder all the while 

Why all is dark above, 
And clamor for the radiant smile 

Of little orbs they love; 
And, lo! an angel hovers near 

To bear thine eyes on high. 
So sleep, my babe, if thou would'st hear 

The music of the sky — 

Sweet nature's hushaby. 



THE ROSE AND THE ICEBERG 

I hasten from the land of snows, 

Where sunbeams dance and quiver, 
Unto the dwelling of a rose, 

Hard by a southern river. 
An iceberg loves the blooming thing, 

But she will pay no heeding 
Unto the splendid polar king, 

Nor to his piteous pleading. 

Abashed that she is hostile to 

His amorous pursuing, 
The iceberg wills that I should go 

To do his kingly wooing. 
He bids me lure her from her tree, 

And from her balmy places; 
And bear her swiftly back with me. 

Unto his fond embraces. 

So, swiftly o'er the mountains high, 

And through the forests gloomy, 
Unto the distant vale I fly 

To win this blossom to me. 
To-morrow evening shall I ride — 

More merrisome and faster — 
For I shall bear the blooming bride 

Back to my knightly master. 



A HUSHABY 319 



A HUSHABY 



Ba-ba, baby sheep, 

Chill and sombre grows the night- 
Only stars from heaven's height 
Shed on us their golden light — 

Ba-ba, go to sleep — 

Go to sleep, baby sheep! 

Ba-ba, baby sheep — 

Never mind the goblin's growl — 
Never heed the hoodoo's howl — 
Let the hippogriffin prowl — 

Ba-ba, mother '11 keep 

Watch over baby sheep! 

Ba-ba, baby sheep — 

Up above, serene and far, 
Beams a tiny golden star 
Listening to the ba-ba 
I am singing to the sheep, 
As they rock the lambs to sleep. 



SONG OF THE CLOUDS 

Far, far beyond yon Eastern steeps 
There is an humble little cot, 
And in that homely, lonely spot 

A mother prays and weeps. 

Be calm, dear one, the Father hears 
Thy softest plaint and faintest sigh, 
And He hath bless'd thy pray'rful cry 

And sanctified thy tears. 

And He hath sent us clouds to bear 
Thy mother's tears, in form of rain, 
Unto the distant desert plain, 



320 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 

To cool the desert air. 

The fainting youth will feel our breath 
Upon his bronzed and fevered face, 
And have new strength to leave that place— 

That arid haunt of death. 

The mother heart need not despair — 
To-morrow eve the son shall rest 
Upon that mother's joyful breast, 

For God hath heard her pray'r. 

So, gentle stars, stay not our flight — 
A mother's tears, in form of rain, 
We bear unto that distant plain 

Where faints a son to-night. 



THE PRINCESS MING 

There was a prince by the name of Tsing 
Who lived in the Chinese town of Lung 
And fell in love with the Princess Ming 

Who lived in the neighboring town of Jung; 
'Twas a terrible thing 
For Tsing and Ming, 
As you '11 allow, when you 've heard me sing. 

Now it happened so that the town of Lung, 

Where lived the prince who longed to woo, 
Went out to war with the town of Jung 

With junks and swords and matchlocks, too — 
'Twas a terrible thing 
For Tsing and Ming, 
As you '11 allow, when you 've heard me sing. 

Miss Ming's papa was eating rice 

On yestermorn at half-past eight, 
And had carved a pie composed of mice, 

When the soldiers knocked at his palace gate; 



THE PRINCESS MING 321 

They were led by Tsing, 
And they called for Ming, 
Which all will allow was a terrible thing! 

Miss Ming's papa girt on his sword — 

"For this," quoth he, "I '11 have his gore!" 
In vain the Princess Ming implored — 

In vain she swooned on the palace floor — 
The Princess Ming 
Who was wooed of Tsing 
Could not prevail with the gruff old King! 

The old King opened the palace gate 

And in marched Tsing with his soldiers grim, 
And the King smote Tsing on his princely pate — 
Stating this stern rebuke to him: 
"It 's a fatal thing 
For you, Mr. Tsing, 
To come a-courting the Princess Ming!" 

The prince most keenly felt this slight, 

But still more keenly the cut on his head; 
So, suddenly turning cold and white, 
He fell to the earth and lay there dead. 
Which act of the King 
To the handsome Tsing 
Was a brutal shock to the Princess Ming. 

No sooner did the young prince die 

Than Princess Ming from the palace flew, 
And jumped straight into the River Ji, 
With the dreadful purpose of dying, too! 
'Twas a natural thing 
For the Princess Ming 
To do for love of the handsome Tsing! 

And when she leaped in the River Ji, 

And gasped and choked till her face was blue, 
A crocodile fish came paddling by 

And greedily bit Miss Ming in two — 



322 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 

The horrid old thing 
Devoured Miss Ming, 
Who had hoped to die for the love of Tsing. 

When the King observed her life adjourned, 
By the crocodile's biting the girl in twain, 
Up to the ether his toes he turned, 

With a ghastly rent in his jugular vein; 
So the poor old King, 
And Tsing, and Ming 
Were dead and gone — what a terrible thing! 

And as for the crocodile fish that had 

Devoured Miss Ming in this off-hand way, 
He caught the dyspepsy so dreadful bad 
That he, too, died that very day! 
So, now, with the King, 
And Tsing, and Ming, 
And the crocodile dead, what more can I sing? 



AN ELFIN SUMMONS 

From the flow'rs and from the trees 

Come, O tiny midnight elves, 
And, to music of the breeze, 

Merrily disport yourselves. 
Harnessing the glow-worm's wing, 

Drive the glow-worm for your steed, 
Or with crickets dance and sing 

On the velvet, perfumed mead. 
Forth from pretty blue-bells creep 

To coquette with starlight gleam — 
See, the lambkins are asleep 

And the daisies sleeping dream. 
Hasten to engage yourselves 
In your frolics, midnight elves! 



A BROOK SONG 323 

See, a toad with jewelled eyes 

Comes and croaks his homely song 
To the spider as she plies 

Her deft spinning all night long; 
See the bat with rustling wings 

Darting nervously above — 
Hear the cricket as she sings 

To her little violet love. 
All the goblins are asleep 

And no flimflam hovers near, 
So from out the posies creep 

With your Elfin ladies dear; 
Merrily disport yourselves, 
Frisky little midnight elves! 



A BROOK SONG 

I 'm hastening from the distant hills 

With swift and noisy flowing, 
Nursed by a thousand tiny rills, 

I 'm ever onward going. 
The willows cannot stay my course, 

With all their pliant wooing. 
I sing and sing till I am hoarse, 

My prattling way pursuing. 
I kiss the pebbles as I pass, 

And hear them say they love me; 
I make obeisance to the grass 

That kindly bends above me. 
So onward through the meads and dells 

I hasten, never knowing 
The secret motive that impels, 

Or whither I am going. 

A little child comes often here 
To watch my quaint commotion, 

As I go tumbling, swift and clear, 
Down to the distant ocean; 



324 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 

And as he plays upon my brink, 

So thoughtless like and merry, 
And full of noisy song, I think 

The child is like me, very. 
Through all the years of youthful play, 

With ne'er a thought of sorrow, 
We, prattling, speed upon our way, 

Unmindful of the morrow; 
Aye, through these sunny meads and dells 

We gambol, never trowing 
The solemn motive that impels, 

Or whither we are going. 

And men come here to say to me: 

"Like you, with weird commotion, 
O little singing brooklet, we 

Are hastening to an ocean; 
Down to a vast and misty deep, 

With fleeting tears and laughter, 
We go, nor rest until we sleep 

In that profound Hereafter. 
What tides may bear our souls along — 

What monsters rise appalling — 
What distant shores may hear our song 

And answer to our calling? 
Ah, who can say! through meads and dells 

We wander, never knowing 
The awful motive that impels, 

Or whither we are going!" 



THE DISMAL DOLE OF THE DOODLEDOO 

A bingo bird once nestled her nest 
On the lissom bough of an I O yew, 

Hard by a burrow that was possess'd 
Of a drear and dismal doodledoo. 



THE DISMAL DOLE OF THE DOODLEDOO 325 

Eftsoons this doodledoo descried 

The blithe and beautiful bingo bird, 
He vowed he 'd woo her to be his bride 

With many a sleek and winsome word. 
"Oh, doo! oh, doo!" sang the doodledoo 
To the bingo bird in the yarrish yew. 

Now a churlish chit was the bingo bird, 

Though her plumes were plumes of cardinal hue, 
And she smithered a smirk whenever she heard 

The tedious yawp of the doodledoo; 
For she loved, alas! a subtile snaix, 

Which had a sting at the end of his tail 
And lived in a tarn of sedge and brakes 

On the murky brink of a gruesome swail. 
"Oh, doo! oh, doo!" moaned the doodledoo, 
As dimmer and danker each day he grew. 

Now, when this doodledoo beheld 

The snaix go wooing the bingo bird, 
With envious rancor his bosom swelled — 

His soul with bitter remorse was stirred. 
And a flubdub said to the doodledoo, 

"The subtile snaix isn't toting square — 
I tell no tales — but if I were you, 

I 'd stop his courting the bingo fair! 
Aye, marry, come up, I 'd fain imbrue, 
If I were only a doodledoo!" 

These burning words which the flubdub said 

Inflamed the reptile's tortured soul 
Till the bristles rose on his livid head, 

And his slimy tongue began for to roll; 
His skin turned red and his fangs turned black 

And his eyes exuded a pool of tears, 
And the scales stood up on his bony back, 

And fire oozed out of his nose and ears! 
Oh, he was a terrible sight to view — 
This fierce and vengeful doodledoo! 



326 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 



The very next morn, as the bingo bird 

Was nursing her baby bingoes three, 
She gave a start, for she plainly heard 

An ominous sound at the foot of the tree! 
Her keen eye lit on the gruesome brakes, 

From whence proceeded the hullaballoo — 
And, lo and behold! 'twas the subtile snaix, 

Busy at work with the doodledoo. 
Boo-hoo! boo-hoo! how the feathers flew, 
When the snaix imbrued with the doodledoo! 

They fought and scratched, ,and they bit and bled, 

Dispensing gore and their vitals, too, 
And never pausing till both were dead — 

The subtile snaix and the doodledoo! 
And the bingo bird — she didn't mind, 

But giving her shoulders a careless shrug, • 
She went the way of her female kind, 

And straightway wedded the straddlebug! 
And there was nobody left to rue 
The doom of the snaix and the doodledoo — 
Unless, mayhap, 'twas the I O yew. 



THE VIOLET'S LOVE STORY 

Here died a robin in the spring, 
And, when he fluttered down to me, 

I tried to bind his broken wing, 
And soothe his dying agony. 

I loved the wounded little bird — 

And, though my heart was full to break, 

I loved in silence — ne'er a word 
Of that dear, hopeless love I spake. 

I saw his old companions bring 
Their funeral tributes to his dell; 

But, when they went, I stayed to sing 
The love I had not dared to tell. 



AN INVITATION TO SLEEP 327 

So, while the little robin sleeps, 

The sorrowing violet bides above: 
And still she sings, as still she weeps, 

A requiem to her buried love. 



AN INVITATION TO SLEEP 

Little eyelids, cease your winking; 

Little orbs, forget to beam; 
Little soul, to slumber sinking, 

Let the fairies rule your dream. 
Breezes, through the lattice sweeping, 

Sing their lullabies the while — 
And a star-ray, softly creeping 

To thy bedside, woos thy smile. 
But no song nor ray entrancing 

Can allure thee from the spell 
Of the tiny fairies dancing 

O'er the eyes they love so well. 
See, we come in countless number — 

I, their queen, and all my court — ■ 
Haste, my precious one, to slumber 

Which invites our fairy sport. 



COQUETRY 

Tiddle-de-dumpty, tiddle-de-dee— 
The spider courted the frisky flea; 
Tiddle-de-dumpty, tiddle-de-doo — 
The flea ran off with the bugaboo! 
"Oh, tiddle-de-dee!" 
Said the frisky flea — 
For what cared she 
For the miseree 
The spider knew, 
When, tiddle-de-doo, 
The flea ran off with the bugaboo ! 



328 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 

Rumpty-tumpty, pimplety-pan — 
The flubdub courted a catamaran 
But timplety-topplety, timpity-tare — . 
The flubdub wedded the big blue bear! 
The fun began 
With a pimplety-pan, 
When the catamaran 
Tore up a man 
And streaked the air 
With his gore and hair 
Because the flubdub wedded the bear! 



THE CRICKET'S SONG 

When all around from out the ground 

The little flowers are peeping, 
And from the hills the merry rills 

With vernal songs are leaping, 
I sing my song the whole day long 

In woodland, hedge, and thicket — 
And sing it, too, the whole night through, 

For I 'm a merry cricket. 

The children hear my chirrup clear 

As, in the woodland straying, 
They gather flow'rs through summer hours- 

And then I. hear them saying: 
"Sing, sing away the livelong day, 

Glad songster of the thicket — 
With your shrill mirth you gladden earth, 

You merry little cricket 1" 

When summer goes, and Christmas snows 

Are from the north returning, 
I quit my lair and hasten where 

The old yule-log is burning. 



THE FATE OF THE FLIMFLAM 329 

And where at night the ruddy light 

Of that old log is flinging 
A genial joy o'er girl and boy, 

There I resume my singing. 

And, when they hear my chirrup clear, 

The children stop their playing — • 
With eager feet they haste to greet 

My welcome music, saying: 
"The little thing has come to sing 

Of woodland, hedge, and thicket — 
Of summer day and lambs at play — 

Oh, how we love the cricket!" 



THE FATE OF THE FLIMFLAM 

A flimflam flopped from a nllamaloo, 

Where the pollywog pinkled so pale, 
And the pipkin piped a petulant "pooh" 

To the garrulous gawp of the gale. 
"Oh, woe to the swap of the sweeping swipe 

That booms on the bobbling bay!" 
Snickered the snark to the snoozing snipe 

That lurked where the lamprey lay. 

The gluglug glinked in the glimmering gloam, 

Where the buzbuz bumbled his bee — 
When the flimflam flitted, all flecked with foam, 

From the sozzling and succulent sea. 
"Oh, swither the swipe, with its sweltering sweep ! : 

She swore as she swayed in a swoon, 
And a doleful dank dumped over the deep, 

To the lay of the limpid loon! 



330 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 



CONTENTMENT 



Once on a time an old red hen 

Went strutting 'round with pompous clucks, 
For she had little babies ten, 

A part of which were tiny ducks. 
" 'T is very rare that hens," said she, 

"Have baby ducks as well as chicks — 
But I possess, as you can see, 

Of chickens four and ducklings six!" 

A season later, this old hen 

Appeared, still cackling of her luck, 
For, though she boasted babies ten, 

Not one among them was a duck! 
" 'T is well," she murmured, brooding o'er 

The little chicks of fleecy down — 
"My babies now will stay ashore, 

And, consequently, cannot drown!" 

The following spring the old red hen 

Clucked just as proudly as of yore — 
But lo! her babes were ducklings ten, 

Instead of chickens, as before! 
" 'T is better," said the old red hen, 

As she surveyed her waddling brood; 
"A little water now and then 

Will surely do my darlings good!" 

But oh! alas, how very sad! < 

When gentle spring rolled round again 
'The eggs eventuated bad, 

And childless was the old red hen! 
Yet patiently she bore her woe, 

And still she wore a cheerful air, 
And said: " 'T is best these things are so, 

For babies are a dreadful care!" 



A FAIRY LULLABY 331 

I half suspect that many men, 

And many, many women, too, 
Could learn a lesson from the hen 

With foliage of vermilion hue; 
She ne'er presumed to take offence 

At any fate that might befall, 
But meekly bowed to Providence — 

She was contented — that was all! 



A FAIRY LULLABY 

There are two stars in yonder steeps 
That watch the baby while he sleeps. 
But while the baby is awake 

And singing gayly all day long, 
The little stars their slumbers take 
Lulled by the music of his song. 
So sleep, dear tired baby, sleep 
While little stars their vigils keep. 

Beside his loving mother-sheep 
A little lambkin is asleep; 

What does he know of midnight gloom — 

He sleeps, and in his quiet dreams 
He thinks he plucks the clover bloom 
And drinks at cooling, purling streams. 
And those same stars the baby knows 
Sing softly to the lamb's repose. 

Sleep, little lamb; sleep, little child — 

The stars are dim — the night is wild; 

But o'er the cot and o'er the lea 

A sleepless eye forever beams — 
A shepherd watches over thee 
In all thy little baby dreams; 
The shepherd loves his tiny sheep — 
Sleep, precious little lambkin, sleep! 



332 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 



BALLAD OF THE JELLY-CAKE 

A little boy whose name was Tim 

Once ate some jelly-cake for tea — 
Which cake did not agree with him, 

As by the sequel you shall see. 
"My darling child," his mother said, 

"Pray do not eat that jelly-cake, 
For, after you have gone to bed, 

I fear 't will make your stomach ache! 
But foolish little Tim demurred 
Unto his mother's warning word. 

That night, while all the household slept, 

Tim felt an awful pain, and then 
From out the dark a nightmare leapt 

And stood upon his abdomen! 
"I cannot breathe!" the infant cried — 

"Oh, Mrs. Nightmare, pity take!" 
"There is no mercy," she replied, 

"For boys who feast on jelly-cake!" 
And so, despite the moans of Tim, 
The cruel nightmare went for him. 

At first, she 'd tickle Timmy's toes 

Or roughly smite his baby cheek — 
And now she 'd rudely tweak his nose 

And other petty vengeance wreak; 
And then, with hobnails in her shoes 

And her two horrid eyes aflame, 
The mare proceeded to amuse 

Herself by prancing o'er his frame — 
First to his throbbing brow, and then 
Back to his little feet again. 

At last, fantastic, wild, and weird, 
And clad in garments ghastly grim, 

A scowling hoodoo band appeared 
And joined in worrying little Tim. 



MORNING SONG 333 

Each member of this hoodoo horde 

Surrounded Tim with fierce ado 
And with long, cruel gimlets bored 

His aching system through and through, 
And while they labored all night long 
The nightmare neighed a dismal song. 

Next morning, looking pale and wild, 

Poor little Tim emerged from bed — 
"Good gracious! what can ail the child!" 

His agitated mother said. 
"We live to learn," responded he, 

"And I have lived to learn to take 
Plain bread and butter for my tea, 

And never, never, jelly-cake! 
For when my hulk with pastry teems, 
I must expect unpleasant dreams!" 



MORNING SONG 

The eastern sky is streaked with red, 

The weary night is done, 
And from his distant ocean bed 

Rolls up the morning sun. 
The dew, like tiny silver beads 

Bespread o'er velvet green, 
Is scattered on the wakeful meads 

By angel hands unseen. 
"Good-morrow, robin in the trees!" 

The star-eyed daisy cries; 
"Good-morrow," sings the morning breeze 

Unto the ruddy skies; 
"Good-morrow, every living thing!" 

Kind Nature seems to say, 
And all her works devoutly sing 

A hymn to birth of day, 

So, haste, without delay, 
Haste, fairy friends, on silver wing, 

And to vour homes awav! 



334 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 



TO A SLEEPING BABY'S EYES 



And thou, twin orbs of love and joy! 
Unveil thy glories with the morn — 
Dear eyes, another day is born — 

Awake, O little sleeping boy! 

Bright are the summer morning skies, 
But in this quiet little room 
There broods a chill, oppressive gloom — 

All for the brightness of thine eyes. 

Without those radiant orbs of thine 

How dark this little world would be — 
This sweet home-world that worships thee- 

So let their wondrous glories shine 

On those who love their Avarmth and joy — 

Awake, O sleeping little boy. 



DREAM, DREAM, DREAM! 

Dream, dream, dream 

Of meadow, wood, and stream; 

Of bird and bee, 

Of flower and tree, 
All under the noonday gleam; 

Of the song and play 

Of mirthful day — 
Dream, dream, dream! 

Dream, dream, dream 

Of glamour, glint, and gleam; 
Of the hushaby things 
The night wind sings 

To the moon and the stars abeam: 
Of whimsical sights 
In the land o' sprites 

Dream, dream, dream! 



A LULLABY 335 



A LULLABY 



The stars are twinkling in the skies, 

The earth is lost in slumbers deep; 
So hush, my sweet, and close thine eyes, 

And let me lull thy soul to sleep. 
Compose thy dimpled hands to rest, 

And like a little birdling lie 
Secure within thy cosey nest 
Upon my loving mother breast 

And slumber to my lullaby, 

So hushaby — O hushaby. 

The moon is singing to a star 

The little song I sing to you; 
The father sun has strayed afar, 

As baby's sire is straying too. 
And so the loving mother moon 

Sings to the little star on high; 
And as she sings, her gentle tune 
Is borne to me, and thus I croon 

For thee, my sweet, that lullaby 

Of hushaby — O hushaby. 

There is a little one asleep 

That does not hear his mother's song; 
But angel watchers — as I weep— 

Surround his grave the night-tide long. 
And as I sing, my sweet, to you, 

Oh, would the lullaby I sing — 
The same sweet lullaby he knew 
While slumb'ring on this bosom too — 

Were borne to him on angel's wing! 

So hushaby — O hushaby. 



336 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 



THE DEATH OF ROBIN HOOD 

"Give me my bow," said Robin Hood, 

"An arrow give to me; 
And where 't is shot mark thou that spot, 

For there my grave shall be." 

Then Little John did make no sign, 

And not a word he spake; 
But he smiled, altho' with mickle woe 

His heart was like to break. 

He raised his master in his arms, 

And set him on his knee; 
And Robin's eyes beheld the skies, 

The shaws, the greenwood tree. 

The brook was babbling as of old, 

The birds sang full and clear, 
And the wild-flowers gay like a carpet lay 

In the path of the timid deer. 

"O Little John," said Robin Hood, 

"Meseemeth now to be 
Standing with you so stanch and true 

Under the greenwood tree. 

"And all around I hear the sound 

Of Sherwood long ago, 
And my merry men come back again, — 

You know, sweet friend, you know! 

"Now mark this arrow; where it falls, 

When I am dead dig deep, 
And bury me there in the greenwood where 

I would forever sleep." 



MOTHER AND CHILD 337 

He twanged his bow. Upon its course 

The clothyard arrow sped, 
And when it fell in yonder dell, 

Brave Robin Hood was dead. 



The sheriff sleeps in a marble vault, 

The king in a shroud of gold; 
And upon the air with a chanted pray'r 

Mingles the mock of mould. 

But the deer draw to the shady pool, 

The birds sing blithe and free, 
And the wild-flow'rs bloom o'er a hidden tomb 

Under the greenwood tree. 



MOTHER AND CHILD 

One night a tiny dewdrop fell 

Into the bosom of a rose, — 
"Dear little one, I love thee well, 

Be ever here thy sweet repose!" 

Seeing the rose with love bedight, 

The envious sky frowned dark, and then 

Sent forth a messenger of light 

And caught the dewdrop up again. 

"Oh, give me back my heavenly child, — 
My love!" the rose in anguish cried; 

Alas! the sky triumphant smiled, 

And so the flower, heart-broken, died. 



338 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 



ASHES ON THE SLIDE 

When Jim and Bill and I were boys a many years ago, 

How gayly did we use to hail the coming of the snow! 

Our sleds, fresh painted red and with their runners round and 

bright, 
Seemed to respond right briskly to our clamor of delight 
As we dragged them up the slippery road that climbed the rugged 

hill 
Where perched the old frame meetin'-house, so solemn-like and still. 

Ah, coasting in those days — those good old days — was fun indeed! 
Sleds at that time I 'd have you know were paragons of speed! 
xAnd if the hill got bare in spots, as hills will do, why then 
We 'd haul on ice and snow to patch those bald spots up again; 
But, oh! with what sad certainty our spirits would subside 
When Deacon Frisbee sprinkled ashes where we used to slide! 

The deacon he would roll his eyes and gnash his toothless gums, 
And clear his skinny throat, and twirl his saintly, bony thumbs, 
And tell you: "When I wuz a boy, they taught me to eschew 
The godless, ribald vanities which modern youth pursue! 
The pathway that leads down to hell is slippery, straight, and 

wide; 
And Satan lurks for prey where little boys are wont to slide!" 

Now, he who ever in his life has been a little boy 

Will not reprove me when he hears the language I employ 

To stigmatize as wickedness the deacon's zealous spite 

In interfering with the play wherein we found delight; 

And so I say, with confidence, not unalloyed of pride: 

" Gol durn the man who sprinkles ashes where the youngsters slide! " 

But Deacon Frisbee long ago went to his lasting rest, 

His money well invested in farm mortgages out West; 

Bill, Jim, and I, no longer boys, have learned through years of strife 

That the troubles of the little boy pursue the man through life; 

That here and there along the course wherein we hoped to glide 

Some envious hand has sprinkled ashes just to spoil our slide! 



CHRISTMAS EVE 339 

And that malicious, envious hand is not the deacon's now. 
Grim, ruthless Fate, that evil sprite none other is than thou! 
Riches and honors, peace and care come at thy beck and go; 
The soul, elate with joy to-day, to-morrow writhes in woe; 
And till a man has turned his face unto the wall and died, 
He must expect to get his share of ashes on his slide! 



CHRISTMAS EVE 

Oh, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul, 
The evening shades are falling, — 

Hush thee, my dear, dost thou not hear 
The voice of the Master calling? 

Deep lies the snow upon the earth, 

But all the sky is ringing 
With joyous song, and all night long 

The stars shall dance, with singing. 

Oh, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul, 
And close thine eyes in dreaming, 

And angels fair shall lead thee where 
The singing stars are beaming. 

A shepherd calls his little lambs, 
And he longeth to caress them; 

He bids them rest upon his breast, 
That his tender love may bless them. 

So, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul, 
Whilst evening shades are falling, 

And above the song of the heavenly throng 
Thou shalt hear the Master calling. 



340 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 



TELLING THE BEES 



Out of the house where the slumberer lay 
Grandfather came one summer day, 
And under the pleasant orchard trees 
He spake this wise to the murmuring bees: 

' 'The clover-bloom that kissed her feet 
And the posie-bed where she used to play 

Have honey store, but none so sweet 
As ere our little one went away. 
O bees, sing soft, and, bees, sing low; 
For she is gone who loved you so." 

A wonder fell on the listening bees 
Under those pleasant orchard trees, 
And in their toil that summer day 
Ever their murmuring seemed to say: 

" Child, O child, the grass is cool, 

And the posies are waking to hear the song 

Of the bird that swings by the shaded pool, 
Waiting for one that tarrieth long." 
'T was so they called to the little one then, 
As if to call her back again. 

O gentle bees, I have come to say 

That grandfather fell asleep to-day, 

And we know by the smile on grandfather's face 

He has found his dear one's biding-place. 

So, bees, sing soft, and, bees, sing low, 
As over the honey-fields you sweep, — 

To the trees abloom and the flowers ablow , 
Sing of grandfather fast asleep; 
And ever beneath these orchard trees 
Find cheer and shelter, gentle bees. 



TWO VALENTINES 341 



TWO VALENTINES 



I — TO MISTRESS BARBARA 



There were three cavaliers, all handsome and true, 
On Valentine's day came a maiden to woo, 
And quoth to your mother: "Good-morrow, my dear, 
We came with some songs for your daughter to hear!" 



Your mother replied: "I '11 be pleased to convey 

To my daughter what things you may sing or may say!" 



Then the first cavalier sung: "My pretty red rose, 
I '11 love you and court you some day, I suppose!" 
And the next cavalier sung, with make-believe tears: 
"I 've loved you! I 've loved you these many long years!" 

But the third cavalier (with the brown, bushy head 
And the pretty blue jacket and necktie of red) 
He drew himself up with a resolute air, 
And he warbled: "O maiden, surpassingly fair! 
I 've loved you long years, and I love you to-day, 
\nd, if you will let me, I '11 love you for aye!" 



I (the third cavalier) sang this ditty to you, 
In my necktie of red and my jacket of blue; 
I 'm sure you '11 prefer the song that was mine 
And smile your approval on your valentine. 



342 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 

II — TO A BABY BOY 

Who I am I shall not say, 
But I send you this bouquet 
With this query, baby mine: 
1 'Will you be my valentine ?" 

See these roses blushing blue, 
Very like your eyes of hue; 
While these violets are the red 
Of your cheeks. It can be said 
Ne'er before was babe like you. 

And I think it is quite true 
No one e 'er before to-day 
Sent so wondrous a bouquet 
As these posies aforesaid — 
Roses blue and violets red! 

Sweet, repay me sweets for sweets- 
"T is your lover who entreats! 
Smile upon me, baby mine — 
Be my little valentine! 



THE LIMITATIONS OF YOUTH 

I 'd like to be a cowboy an' ride a firey hoss 
Way out into the big an' boundless West; 
I 'd kill the bears an' catamounts an' wolves I come across, 
An' I 'd pluck the bal' head eagle from his nest! 
With my pistols at my side, 
I would roam the prarers wide, 
An' to scalp the savage Injun in his wigwam would I ride — 
If I darst; but I darse n't! 



THE LIMITATIONS OF YOUTH 343 

I 'd like to go to Afriky an' hunt the lions there, 

An' the biggest ollyfunts you ever saw! 
I would track the fierce gorilla to his equatorial lair, 
An' beard the cannybull that eats folks raw! 
I 'd chase the pizen snakes 
An' the 'pottimus that makes 
His nest down at the bottom of unfathomable lakes — 
If I darst; but I darse n't! 



I would I were a pirut to sail the ocean blue, 

With a big black flag aflyin' overhead; 
I would scour the billowy main with my gallant pirut crew 
An' dye the sea a gouty, gory red! 
With my cutlass in my hand 
On the quarterdeck I 'd stand 
And to deeds of heroism I 'd incite my pirut band — ■ 
If I darst; but I darse n't! 



And, if I darst, I 'd lick my pa for the times that he 's licked me! 

I 'd lick my brother an' my teacher, too ! 
I 'd lick the fellers that call round on sister after tea, 
An' I 'd keep on lickin' folks till I got through! 
You bet! I 'd run away 
From my lessons to my play, 
An' I 'd shoo the hens, an' tease the cat, an' kiss the girls all 
day— 

If I darst; but I darse n't! 



344 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 



A PITEOUS PLAINT 



I cannot eat my porridge, 

I weary of my play; 
No longer can I sleep at night, 

No longer romp by day! 
Though forty pounds was once my weight, 

I 'm shy of thirty now; 
I pine, I wither and I fade 

Through love of Martha Clow. 



As she rolled by this morning 

I heard the nurse girl say: 
"She weighs just twenty-seven pounds 

And she 's one year old to-day.'' 
I threw a kiss that nestled 

In the curls upon her brow, 
But she never turned to thank me — 

That bouncing Martha Clow! 



She ought to know I love her, 

For I 've told her that I do; 
And I 've brought her nuts and apples, 

And sometimes candy, too! 
I 'd drag her in my little cart 

If her mother would allow 
That delicate attention 

To her daughter, Martha Clow. 



O Martha! pretty Martha! 

Will you always be so cold ? 
Will you always be as cruel 

As you are at one-year-old ? 



THE TWO LITTLE SKEEZUCKS 345 

Must your two-year-old admirer 

Pine as hopelessly as now 
For a fond reciprocation 

Of his love for Martha Clow ? 



You smile on Bernard Rogers 

And on little Harry Knott; 
You play with them at peek-a-boo 

All in the Waller Lot! 
Wildly I gnash my new-cut teeth 

And beat my throbbing brow, 
When I behold the coquetry 

Of heartless Martha Clow! 



I cannot eat my porridge, 

Nor for my play care I ; 
Upon the floor and porch and lawn 

My toys neglected lie; 
But on the air of Halsted Street 

I breathe this solemn vow: 
"Though she be false, I will be true 

To pretty Martha Clow!" 



THE TWO LITTLE SKEEZUCKS 

There were two little skeezucks who lived in the isle 

Of Boo in a southern sea; 
They clambered and rollicked in heathenish style 

In the boughs of their cocoanut tree. 
They didn't fret much about clothing and such 
And they recked not a whit of the ills 
That sometimes accrue 
From having to do 
With tailor and laundry bills. 



346 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 

The two little skeezucks once heard of a Fair 

Far off from their native isle, 
And they asked of King Fan if they mightn't go there 
To take in the sights for awhile. 
Now old King Fan 
Was a good-natured man 
(As good-natured monarchs go), 
And howbeit he swore that all Fairs were a bore, 
He hadn't the heart to say "No." 



So the two little skeezueks sailed off to the Fair 

In a great big gum canoe, 
And I fancy they had a good time there, 

For they tarried a year or two. 
And old King Fan at last began 
To reckon they 'd come to grief, 
When glory! one day 
They sailed into the bay 
To the tune of "Hail to the Chief!" 



The two little skeezucks fell down on the sand, 

Embracing his majesty's toes, 
Till his majesty graciously bade them stand 
And salute him nose to nose. 
And then quoth he: 
"Divulge unto me 
What happenings have hapt to you; 
And how did they dare to indulge in a Fair 
So far from the island of Boo?" 



The two little skeezucks assured their king 

- That what he surmised was true; 
That the Fair would have been a different thing 
Had it only been held in Boo! 



THE TWO LITTLE SKEEZUCKS 347 

"The folk over there in no wise compare 
With the folk of the southern seas; 

Why, they comb out their heads 

And they sleep in beds 
Instead of in caverns and trees!" 



The two little skeezucks went on to say 

That children (so far as they knew) 
Had a much harder time in that land far away 
Than here in the island of Boo! 
They have to wear clo'es 
Which (as every one knows) 
Are irksome to primitive laddies, 
While, with forks and with spoons, they 're denied the sweet 
boons 
That accrue from free use of one's paddies! 



"And now that you 're speaking of things to eat, 

Interrupted the monarch of Boo, 
"We beg to inquire if you happened to meet 

With a nice missionary or two?" 
"No, that we did not; in that curious spot 
Where were gathered the fruits of the earth, 
Of that special kind 
Which Your Xibs has in mind 
There appeared a deplorable dearth!" 



Then loud laughed that monarch in heathenish mirth 

And loud laughed his courtiers, too, 
And they cried: "There is elsewhere no land upon earth 
So good as our island of Boo!" 

And the skeezucks, tho' glad 
Of the journey they 'd had, 
Climbed up in their cocoanut trees, 
Where they still may be seen with no shirts to keep clean 
Or trousers that bag at the knees. 



348 POEMS OF CHILDHOOD 



THE BOW-LEG BOY 



Who should come up the road one day 
But the doctor-man in his two- wheel shay! 
And he whoaed his horse and he cried "Ahoy! 
I have brought you folks a bow-leg boy! 
Such a cute little boy! 
Such a funny little boy! 

Such a dear little bow-leg boy!" 



He took out his box and he opened it wide, 
And there was the bow-leg boy inside! 
And when they saw that cunning little mite, 
They cried in a chorus expressive of delight: 
"What a cute little boy! 
What a funny little boy! 

What a dear little bow-leg boy!" 



Observing a strict geometrical law, 
They cut out his panties with a circular saw; 
Which gave such a stress to his oval stride 
That the people he met invariably cried: 
"What a cute little boy! 
What a funny little boy! 

What a dear little bow-leg boy!" 



They gave him a wheel and away he went 
Speeding along to his heart's content; 
And he sits so straight and he pedals so strong 
That the folks all say as he bowls along: 
"What a cute little boy! 
What a funny little boy! 

What a dear little bow-leg boy!" 



THE BOW-LEG BOY 349 

With his eyes aflame and his cheeks aglow, 
He laughs "aha" and he laughs "oho"; 
And the world is filled and thrilled with the joy 
Of that jolly little human, the bow-leg boy — 
The cute little boy! 

The funny little boy! 

The dear little bow-leg boy! 

If ever the doctor-man comes my way 
With his wonderful box in his two-wheel shay, 
I '11 ask for the treasure I 'd fain possess — 
Now, honest Injun! can't you guess? 
Why, a cute little boy — 
A funny little boy — 

A dear little bow-leg boy! 



ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM 

TO M. L. GRAY 

(dedication) 

Come, dear old friend, and with us twain 
To calm Digentian groves repair; 

The turtle coos his sweet refrain 
And posies are a-blooming there; 

And there the romping Sabine girls 

Bind myrtle in their lustrous curls. 

I know a certain ilex-tree 

Whence leaps a fountain cool and clear. 
Its voices summon you and me; 

Come, let us haste to share its cheer! 
Methinks the rapturous song it sings 
Should woo our thoughts from mortal things. 

But, good old friend, I charge thee well, 
Watch thou my brother all the while, 

Lest some fair Lydia cast her spell 

Round him unschooled in female guile. 

Those damsels have no charms for me; 

Guard thou that brother, — I '11 guard thee! 

And, lo, sweet friend! behold this cup, 
Round which the garlands intertwine; 

With Massic it is foaming up, 

And we would drink to thee and thine. 

And of the draught thou shalt partake, 

Who lov'st us for our father's sake. 
350 



AN INVITATION TO MAECENAS 351 

Hark you! from yonder Sabine farm 

Echo the songs of long ago, 
With power to soothe and grace to charm 

What ills humanity may know; 
With that sweet music in the air, 
'T is Love and Summer everywhere. 

So, though no grief consumes our lot 
(Since all our lives have been discreet), 

Come, in this consecrated spot, 
Let's see if pagan cheer be sweet. 

Now, then, the songs; but, first, more wine. 

The gods be with you, friends of mine! 



AN INVITATION TO MAECENAS 

Dear, noble friend! a virgin cask 

Of wine solicits your attention; 
And roses fair, to deck your hair, 

And things too numerous to mention. 
So tear yourself awhile away 

From urban turmoil, pride, and splendor, 
And deign to share what humble fare 

And sumptuous fellowship I tender. 
The sweet content retirement brings 
Smoothes out the ruffled front of kings. 

The evil planets have combined 

To make the weather hot and hotter; 
By parboiled streams the shepherd dreams 

Vainly of ice-cream soda-water. 
And meanwhile you, defying heat, 

With patriotic ardor ponder 
On what old Rome essays at home, 

And what her heathen do out yonder. 
Maecenas, no such vain alarm 
Disturbs the quiet of this farm! 



352 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM 

God in His providence obscures 

The goal beyond this vale of sorrow, 
And smiles at men in pity when 

They seek to penetrate the morrow. 
With faith that all is for the best, 

Let's bear what burdens are presented, 
That we shall say, let come what may, 

"We die, as we have lived, contented! 
Ours is to-day; God's is the rest, — 
He doth ordain who knoweth best." 

Dame Fortune plays me many a prank. 

When she is kind, oh, how I go it! 
But if again she 's harsh, — why, then 

I am a very proper poet! 
When favoring gales bring in my ships, 

I hie to Rome and live in clover; 
Elsewise I steer my skiff out here, 

And anchor till the storm blows over. 
Compulsory virtue is the charm 
Of life upon the Sabine farm! 



CHLORIS PROPERLY REBUKED 

Chloris, my friend, I pray you your misconduct to forswear; 
The wife of poor old Ibycus should have more savoir faire. 
A woman at your time of life, and drawing near death's door, 
Should not play with the girly girls, and think she 's en rapport. 

What 's good enough for Pholoe you cannot well essay; 
Your daughter very properly courts the jeunesse doree, — 
A Thyiad, who, when timbrel beats, cannot her joy restrain, 
But plays the kid, and laughs and giggles a V Americaine. 

'T is more becoming, madame, in a creature old and poor, 
To sit and spin than to engage in an affaire d'amour. 
The lutes, the roses, and the wine drained deep are not for you; 
Remember what the poet says: Ce monde est plein de fous! 



TO THE FOUNTAIN OF BANDUSIA 353 



TO THE FOUNTAIN OF BANDUSIA 

O fountain of Bandusia! 

Whence crystal waters flow, 
With garlands gay and wine I '11 pay 

The sacrifice I owe; 
A sportive kid with budding horns 

I have, whose crimson blood 
Anon shall dye and sanctify 

Thy cool and babbling flood. 

O fountain of Bandusia! 

The Dog-star's hateful spell 
No evil brings into the springs 

That from thy bosom well; 
Here oxen, wearied by the plough, 

The roving cattle here 
Hasten in quest of certain rest, 

And quaff thy gracious cheer. 

O fountain of Bandusia! 

Ennobled shalt thou be, 
For I shall sing the joys that spring 

Beneath yon ilex-tree. 
Yes, fountain of Bandusia, 

Posterity shall know 
The cooling brooks that from thy nooks 

Singing and dancing go. 



TO THE FOUNTAIN OF BANDUSIA 

O fountain of Bandusia! more glittering than glass, 
And worthy of th pleasant wine and toasts that freely pass; 
More worthy of the flowers with which thou modestly art hid 
To-morrow willing hands shall sacrifice to thee a kid. 



354 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM 

In vain the glory of the brow where proudly swell above 

The growing horns, significant of battle and of love; 

For in thy honor he shall die, — the offspring of the herd, — 

And with his crimson life-blood thy cold waters shall be stirred. 

The Dog-star's cruel season, with its fierce and blazing heat, 
Has never sent its scorching rays into thy glad retreat; 
The oxen, wearied with the plough, the herd which wanders near, 
Have found a grateful respite and delicious coolness here. 

When of the graceful ilex on the hollow rocks I sing, 
Thou shalt become illustrious, O sweet Bandusian spring! 
Among the noble fountains which have been enshrined in fame, 
Thy dancing, babbling waters shall in song our homage claim. 



THE PREFERENCE DECLARED 

Boy, I detest the Persian pomp ; 

I hate those linden-bark devices; 
And as for roses, holy Moses! 

They can't be got at living prices! 
Myrtle is good enough for us, — 

For you, as bearer of my flagon; 
For me, supine beneath this vine, 

Doing my best to get a jag on! 



A TARDY APOLOGY 



Maecenas, you will be my death, — though friendly you profess 

yourself, — 
If to me in a strain like this so often you address yourself: 
"Come, Holly, why this laziness? Why indolently shock you us? 
Why with Lethean cups fall into desuetude innocuous?" 



A TARDY APOLOGY 355 

A god, Maecenas! yea, a god hath proved the very curse of me! 
If my iambics are not done, pray, do not think the worse of me; 
Anacreon for young Bathyllus burned without apology, 
And wept his simple measures on a sample of conchology. 

Now, you yourself, Maecenas, are enjoying this beatitude; 
If by no brighter beauty Ilium fell, you 've cause for gratitude. 
A certain Phryne keeps me on the rack with lovers numerous; 
This is the artful hussy's neat conception of the humorous! 



A TARDY APOLOGY 
ii 

You ask me, friend, 

Why I don't send 
The long since due-and-paid-for numbers; 

Why, songless, I 

As drunken lie 
Abandoned to Lethean slumbers. 

Long time ago 

(As well you know) 
I started in upon that carmen; 

My work was vain, — 

But why complain? 
When gods forbid, how helpless are men! 

Some ages back, 

The sage Anack 
Courted a frisky Samian body, 

Singing her praise 

In metered phrase 
As flowing as his bowls of toddy. 

Till I was hoarse 

Might I discourse 
Upon the cruelties of Venus; 

'T were waste of time 

As well of rhyme, 
For you 've been there yourself, Maecenas! 



356 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM 

Perfect your bliss 

If some fair miss 
Love you yourself and not your minse; 

I, fortune's sport, 

All vainly court 
The beauteous, polyandrous Phryne! 



TO THE SHIP OF STATE 

O ship of state, 
Shall new winds bear you back upon the sea? 
What are you doing? Seek the harbor's lee 

Ere 't is too late! 

Do you bemoan 
Your side was stripped of oarage in the blast? 
Swift Africus has weakened, too, your mast; 

The sailyards groan. 

Of cables bare, 
Your keel can scarce endure the lordly wave. 
Your sails are rent; you have no gods to save, 

Or answer pray'r. 

Though Pontic pine, 
The noble daughter of a far-famed wood, 
You boast your lineage and title good, — 

A useless line! 

The sailor there 
In painted sterns no reassurance finds; 
Unless you owe derision to the winds, 

Beware — beware ! 

My grief erewhile, 
But now my care — my longing! shun the seas 
That flow between the gleaming Cyclades, 

Each shining isle. 



QUITTING AGAIN 357 



QUITTING AGAIN 

The hero of 

Affairs of love 
By far too numerous to be mentioned, 

And scarred as I 'm, 

It seemeth time 
That I were mustered out and pensioned. 

So on this wall 

My lute and all 
I hang, and dedicate to Venus; 

And I implore 

But one thing more 
Ere all is at an end between us. 

O goddess fair 

Who reignest where 
The weather 's seldom bleak and snowy, 

This boon I urge: 

In anger scourge 
My old cantankerous sweetheart, Chloe! 



SAILOR AND SHADE 

SAILOR 

You, who have compassed land and sea, 

Now all unburied lie; 
All vain your store of human lore, 

For you were doomed to die. 
The sire of Pelops likewise fell, — 

Jove's honored mortal guest; 
So king and sage of every age 

At last lie down to rest. 
Plutonian shades enfold the ghost 

Of that majestic one 



358 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM 

Who taught as truth that he, forsooth, 

Had once been Pentheus' son; 
Believe who may, he 's passed away, 

And what he did is done. 
A last night comes alike to all; 

One path we all must tread, 
Through sore disease or stormy seas 

Or fields with corpses red. 
Whate'er our deeds, that pathway leads 

To regions of the dead. 

SHADE 

The fickle twin Illyrian gales 

O'erwhelmed me on the wave; 
But you that live, I pray you give 

My bleaching bones a grave! 
Oh, then when cruel tempests rage 

You all unharmed shall be; 
Jove's mighty hand shall guard by land 

And Neptune's on the sea. 
Perchance you fear to do what may 

Bring evil to your race ? 
Oh, rather fear that like me here 

You '11 lack a burial place. 
So, though you be in proper haste, 

Bide long enough, I pray, 
To give me, friend, what boon shall send 

My soul upon its way! 



LET US HAVE PEACE 

In maudlin spite let Thracians fight 
Above their bowls of liquor; 

But such as we, when on a spree, 
Should never brawl and bicker! 



TO QUINTUS DELLIUS 359 

These angry words and clashing swords 

Are quite de trop, I 'm thinking; 
Brace up, my boys, and hush your noise, 

And drown your wrath in drinking. 

Aha, 't is fine, — this mellow wine 

With which our host would dope us! 
Now let us hear what pretty dear 

Entangles him of Opus. 

I see you blush, — nay, comrades, hush! 

Come, friend, though they despise you, 
Tell me the name of that fair dame, — 

Perchance I may advise you. 

O wretched youth! and is it truth 

You love that fickle lady? 
I, doting dunce, courted her once; 

Since when, she 's reckoned shady! 



TO QUINTUS DELLIUS 

Be tranquil, Dellius, I pray; 

For though you pine your life away 

With dull complaining breath, 
Or speed with song and wine each day, 

Still, still your doom is death. 

Where the white poplar and the pine 
In glorious arching shade combine, 

And the brook singing goes, 
Bid them bring store of nard and wine 

And garlands of the rose. 

Let 's live while chance and youth obtain; 
Soon shall you quit this fair domain 

Kissed by the Tiber's gold, 
And all your earthly pride and gain 

Some heedless heir shall hold. 



360 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM 

One ghostly boat shall some time bear 
From scenes of mirthfulness or care 

Each fated human soul, — 
Shall waft and leave its burden where 

The waves of Lethe roll. 

So come, I prithee, Dellius mine; 

Let 's sing our songs and drink our wine 

In that sequestered nook 
Where the white poplar and the pine 

Stand listening to the brook. 



POKING FUN AT XANTHIAS 

Of your love for your handmaid you need feel no shame. 

Don't apologize, Xanthias, pray; 
Remember, Achilles the proud felt a flame 

For Brissy, his slave, as they say. 
Old Telamon's son, fiery Ajax, was moved 

By the captive Tecmessa's ripe charms; 
And Atrides, suspending the feast, it behooved 

To gather a girl to his arms. 

Now, how do you know that this yellow-haired maid 

(This Phyllis you fain would enjoy) 
Hasn't parents whose wealth would cast you in the shade,- 

Who would ornament you, Xan, my boy? 
Very likely the poor chick sheds copious tears, 

And is bitterly thinking the while 
Of the royal good times of her earlier years, 

When her folks regulated the style! 

It won't do at all, my dear boy, to believe 

That she of whose charms you are proud 
Is beautiful only as means to deceive, — 

Merely one of the horrible crowd. 



TO ARISTIUS FUSCTJS 361 

So constant a sweetheart, so loving a wife, 

So averse to all notions of greed 
Was surely not born of a mother whose life 

Is a chapter you 'd better not read. 

As an unbiased party I feel it my place 

(For I don't like to do things by halves) 
To compliment Phyllis, — her arms and her face 

And (excuse me) her delicate calves. 
Tut, tut! don't get angry, my boy, or suspect 

You have any occasion to fear 
A man whose deportment is always correct, 

And is now in his forty-first year! 



TO ARISTIUS FUSCUS 

Fuscus, whoso to good inclines, 

And is a faultless liver, 
Nor Moorish spear now bow need fear, 
Nor poison-arrowed quiver. 

Ay, though through desert wastes he roam, 
Or scale the rugged mountains, 

Or rest beside the murmuring tide 
Of weird Hydaspan fountains! 

Lo, on a time, I gayly paced 

The Sabine confines shady, 
And sung in glee of Lalage, 

My own and dearest lady; 

And as I sung, a monster wolf 

Slunk through the thicket from me; 

But for that song, as I strolled along, 
He would have overcome me! 



362 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM 

Set me amid those poison mists 
Which no fair gale dispelleth, 

Or in the plains where silence reigns, 
And no thing human dwelleth, — 

Still shall I love my Lai age, 
Still sing her tender graces; 

And while I sing, my theme shall bring 
Heaven to those desert places! 



TO ALBIUS TIBULLUS 



Not to lament that rival flame 

Wherewith the heartless Glycera scorns you, 
Nor waste your time in maudlin rhyme, 

How many a modern instance warns you! 

Fair-browed Lycoris pines away 
Because her Cyrus loves another; 

The ruthless churl informs the girl 
He loves her only as a brother! 

For he, in turn, courts Pholoe, — 

A maid unscotched of love's fierce virus; 

Why, goats will mate with wolves they hate 
Ere Pholoe will mate with Cyrus! 

Ah, weak and hapless human hearts, 

By cruel Mother Venus fated 
To spend this life in hopeless strife, 

Because incongruously mated! 

Such torture, Albius, is my lot; 

For, though a better mistress wooed me, 
My Myrtale has captured me, 

And with her cruelties subdued me! 



TO ALBIUS TIBULLUS 363 

TO ALBIUS TIBULLUS 



Grieve not, my Albius, if thoughts of Glycera may haunt you, 
Nor chant your mournful elegies because she faithless proves; 
If now a younger man than you this cruel charmer loves, 

Let not the kindly favors of the past rise up to taunt you. 

Lycoris of the little brow for Cyrus feels a passion, 

And Cyrus, on the other hand, toward Pholoe inclines; 
But ere this crafty Cyrus can accomplish his designs 

She-goats will wed Apulian wolves in deference to fashion. 

Such is the will, the cruel will, of love-inciting Venus, 

Who takes delight in wanton sport and ill-considered jokes, 
And brings ridiculous misfits beneath her brazen yokes, — 

A very infelicitous proceeding, just between us. 

As for myself, young Myrtale, slave-born and lacking graces, 
And wilder than the Adrian tides which form Calabrian bays, 
Entangled me in pleasing chains and compromising ways, 

When — just my luck — a better girl was courting my embraces. 



TO MAECENAS 

Maecenas, thou of royalty's descent, 

Both my protector and dear ornament, 

Among humanity's conditions are 

Those who take pleasure in the flying car, 

Whirling Olympian dust, as on they roll, 

And shunning with the glowing wheel the goal; 

While the ennobling palm, the prize of worth, 

Exalts them to the gods, the lords of earth. 

Here one is happy if the fickle crowd 

His name the threefold honor has allowed; 

And there another, if into his stores 

Comes what is swept from Libvan threshing-floors. 



364 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM 

He who delights to till his father's lands, 

And grasps the delving-hoe with willing hands, 

Can never to Attalic offers hark, 

Or cut the Myrtoan Sea with Cyprian bark. 

The merchant, timorous of Afric's breeze, 

When fiercely struggling with Icarian seas 

Praises the restful quiet of his home, 

Nor wishes from the peaceful fields to roam; 

Ah, speedily his shattered ships he mends, — 

To poverty his lesson ne'er extends. 

One there may be who never scorns to fill 

His cups with mellow draughts from Massic's hill, 

Nor from the busy day an hour to wean, 

Now stretched at length beneath the arbute green, 

Now at the softly whispering spring, to dream 

Of the fair nymphs who haunt the sacred stream. 

For camp and trump and clarion some have zest,- 

The cruel wars the mothers so detest. 

'Neath the cold sky the hunter spends his life, 

Unmindful of his home and tender wife, 

Whether the doe is seen by faithful hounds 

Or Marsian boar through the fine meshes bounds. 

But as for me, the ivy-wreaths, the prize 
Of learned brows, exalt me to the skies; 
The shady grove, the nymphs and satyrs there, 
Draw me away from people everywhere; 
If it may be, Euterpe's flute inspires, 
Or Polyhymnia strikes the Lesbian lyres; 
And if you place me where no bard debars, 
With head exalted I shall strike the stars! 



TO HIS BOOK 365 



TO HIS BOOK 

You vain, self-conscious little book, 
Companion of my happy days, 

How eagerly you seem to look 
For wider fields to spread your lays; 

My desk and locks cannot contain you, 

Nor blush of modesty restrain you. 

Well, then, begone, fool that thou art! 
But do not come to me and cry, 

When critics strike you to the heart: 
"Oh, wretched little book am I!" 

You know I tried to educate you 

To shun the fate that must await you. 

In youth you may encounter friends 
(Pray this prediction be not wrong), 

But wait until old age descends 
And thumbs have smeared your gentlest song; 

Then will the moths connive to eat you 

And rural libraries secrete you. 

However, should a friend some word 
Of my obscure career request, 

Tell him how deeply I was stirred 
To spread my wings beyond the nest; 

Take from my years, which are before you, 

To boom my merits, I implore you. 

Tell him that I am short and fat, 
Quick in my temper, soon appeased, 

With locks of gray, — but what of that? 
Loving the sun, with nature pleased. 

I 'm more than four and forty, hark you, — 

But ready for a night off, mark you! 



366 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM 



FAME vs. RICHES 



The Greeks had genius, — 't was a gift 

The Muse vouchsafed in glorious measure; 

The boon of Fame they made their aim 
And prized above all worldly treasure. 

But we, — how do we train our youth ? 

Not in the arts that are immortal, 
But in the greed for gains that speed 

From him who stands at Death's dark portal. 

Ah, when this slavish love of gold 
Once binds the soul in greasy fetters, 

How prostrate lies, — how droops and dies 
The great, the noble cause of letters! 



THE LYRIC MUSE 

I love the lyric muse! 
For when mankind ran wild in grooves 

Came holy Orpheus with his songs 
And turned men's hearts from bestial loves, 

From brutal force and savage wrongs; 
Amphion, too, and on his lyre 

Made such sweet music all the day 
That rocks, instinct with warm desire, 

Pursued him in his glorious way. 

I love the lyric muse! 
Hers was the wisdom that of yore 

Taught man the rights of fellow man, 
Taught him to worship God the more, 

And to revere love's holy ban. 
Hers was the hand that jotted down 

The laws correcting divers wrongs; 
And so came honor and renown 

To bards and to their noble songs. 



A COUNTERBLAST AGAINST GARLIC 367 

I love the lyric muse! 
Old Homer sung unto the lyre; 

Tyrtseus, too, in ancient days; 
Still warmed by their immortal fire, 

How doth our patriot spirit blaze! 
The oracle, when questioned, sings; 

So our first steps in life are taught. 
In verse we soothe the pride of kings, 

In verse the drama has been wrought. 

I love the lyric muse! 
Be not ashamed, O noble friend, 

In honest gratitude to pay 
Thy homage to the gods that spend 

This boon to charm all ill away. 
With solemn tenderness revere 

This voiceful glory as a shrine 
Wherein the quickened heart may hear 

The counsels of a voice divine! 



A COUNTERBLAST AGAINST GARLIC 

May the man who has cruelly murdered his sire— 

A crime to be punished with death — 
Be condemned to eat garlic till he shall expire 

Of his own foul and venomous breath! 
What stomachs these rustics must have who can eat 

This dish that Canidia made, 
Which imparts to my colon a torturous heat, 

And a poisonous look, I 'm afraid! 

They say that ere Jason attempted to yoke 

The fire-breathing bulls to the plough 
He smeared his whole body with garlic, — a joke 

Which I fully appreciate now. 
When Medea gave Glauce her beautiful dress, 

In which garlic was scattered about, 
It was cruel and rather low-down, I confess, 

But it settled the point beyond doubt. 



368 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM 

On thirsty Apulia ne'er has the sun 

Inflicted such terrible heat; 
As for Hercules' robe, although poisoned, 't was fun 

When compared with this garlic we eat! 
Maecenas, if ever on garbage like this 

You express a desire to be fed, 
May Mrs. Maecenas object to your kiss, 

And lie at the foot of the bed! 



AN EXCUSE FOR LALAGE 

To bear the yoke not yet your love's submissive neck is bent, 
To share a husband's toil, or grasp his amorous intent; 
Over the fields, in cooling streams, the heifer longs to go, 
Now with the calves disporting where the pussy-willows grow. 

Give up your thirst for unripe grapes, and, trust me, you shall learn 
How quickly in the autumn time to purple they will turn. 
Soon she will follow you, for age steals swiftly on the maid; 
And all the precious years that you have lost she will have paid. 

Soon she will seek a lord, beloved as Pholoe, the coy, 
Or Chloris, or young Gyges, that deceitful, girlish boy, 
Whom, if you placed among the girls, and loosed his flowing locks, 
The wondering guests could not decide which one decorum shocks. 



AN APPEAL TO LYCE 

Lyce, the gods have heard my prayers, as gods will hear the dutiful, 

And brought old age upon you, though you still affect the beautiful. 

You sport among the boys, and drink and chatter on quite aim- 
lessly; 

And in your cups with quavering voice you torment Cupid shame- 
lessly. 



A ROMAN WINTER-PIECE 369 

For blooming Chia, Cupid has a feeling more than brotherly; 
He knows a handsaw from a hawk whenever winds are southerly. 
He pats her pretty cheeks, but looks on you as a monstrosity; 
Your wrinkles and your yellow teeth excite his animosity. 

For jewels bright and purple Coan robes you are not dressable; 

Unhappily for you, the public records are accessible. 

Where is your charm, and where your bloom and gait so firm 

and sensible, 
That drew my love from Cinara, — a lapse most indefensible ? 

To my poor Cinara in youth Death came with great celerity; 

Egad, that never can be said of you with any verity! 

The old crow that you are, the teasing boys will jeer, compelling 

you 
To roost at home. Reflect, all this is straight that I am telling 

you. 



A ROMAN WINTER-PIECE 



See, Thaliarch mine, how, white with snow, 

Soracte mocks the sullen sky; 
How, groaning loud, the woods are bowed, 

And chained with frost the rivers lie. 

Pile, pile the logs upon the hearth; 

We '11 melt away the envious cold: 
And, better yet, sweet friend, we '11 wet 

Our whistles with some four-year-old. 

Commit all else unto the gods, 

Who, when it pleaseth them, shall bring 
To fretful deeps and wooded steeps 

The mild, persuasive grace of Spring. 

Let not To-morrow, but To-day, 
Your ever active thoughts engage; 



370 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM 

Frisk, dance, and sing, and have your fling, 
Unharmed, unawed of crabbed Age. 

Let 's steal content from Winter's wrath, 
And glory in the artful theft, 

That years from now folks shall allow 
'T was cold indeed when we got left. 

So where the whisperings and the mirth 
Of girls invite a sportive chap, 

Let 's fare awhile,— aha, you smile; 
You guess my meaning, — verbum sap. 



A ROMAN WINTER-PIECE 

ii 

Now stands Soracte white with snow, now bend the laboring trees, 
And with the sharpness of the frost the stagnant rivers freeze. 
Pile up the billets on the hearth, to warmer cheer incline, 
And draw, my Thaliarchus, from the Sabine jar the wine. 

The rest leave to the gods, who still the fiercely warring wind, 
And to the morrow's store of good or evil give no mind. 
Whatever day your fortune grants, that day mark up for gain; 
And in your youthful bloom do not the sweet amours disdain. 

Now on the Campus and the squares, when evening shades descend, 
Soft whisperings again are heard, and loving voices blend; 
And now the low delightful laugh betrays the lurking maid, 
While from her slowly yielding arms the forfeiture is paid. 



TO DIANA 

O virgin, tri-formed goddess fair, 
The guardian of the groves and hills, 

Who hears the girls in their despair 
Cry out in childbirth's cruel ills, 

And saves them from the Stygian flow! 



TO HIS LUTE 371 

Let the pine-tree my cottage near 

Be sacred to- thee evermore, 
That I may give to it each year 

With joy the life-blood of the boar, 
Now thinking of the sidelong blow. 



TO HIS LUTE 

If ever in the sylvan shade 
A song immortal we have made, 
Come now, O lute, I prithee come, 
Inspire a song of Latium! 

A Lesbian first thy glories proved; 

In arms and in repose he loved 

To sweep thy dulcet strings, and raise 

His voice in Love's and Liber's praise. 

The Muses, too, and him who clings 

To Mother Venus' apron-strings, 

And Lycus beautiful, he sung 

In those old days when you were young. 

O shell, that art the ornament 
Of Phoebus, bringing sweet content 
To Jove, and soothing troubles all, — 
Come and requite me, when I call! 



TO LEUCONOE 



What end the gods may have ordained for me, 
And what for thee, 

Seek not to learn, Leuconoe; we may not know 
Chaldean tables cannot bring us rest 
'T is for the best 

To bear in patience what may come, or weal or woe. 



372 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM 

If for more winters our poor lot is cast, 
Or this the last, 

Which on the crumbling rocks has dashed Etruscan seas, 
Strain clear the wine; this life is short, at best. 
Take hope with zest, 

And, trusting not To-morrow, snatch To-day for ease! 



TO LEUCONOE 

ii 

Seek not, Leuconoe, to know how long you 're going to live yet, 
What boons the gods will yet withhold, or what they 're going to 

give yet; 
For Jupiter will have his way, despite how much we worry, — 
Some will hang on for many a day, and some die in a hurry. 
The wisest thing for you to do is to embark this diem 
Upon a merry escapade with some such bard as I am. 
And while we sport I '11 reel you off such odes as shall surprise ye; 
To-morrow, when the headache comes, — well, then I '11 satirize ye! 



TO LIGURINUS 



Though mighty in Love's favor still, 

Though cruel yet, my boy, 
When the unwelcome dawn shall chill 

Your pride and youthful joy, 
The hair which round your shoulder grows 

Is rudely cut away, 
Your color, redder than the rose, 

Is changed by youth's decay, — 

Then, Ligurinus, in the glass 

Another you will spy. 
And as the shaggy face, alas! 

You see, your grief will cry: 



TO LIGURINUS 373 

"Why in my youth could I not learn 

The wisdom men enjoy? 
Or why to men cannot return 

The smooth cheeks of the boy?" 



TO LIGURINUS 

ii 

O cruel fair, 
Whose flowing hair 
The envy and the pride of all is, 
As onward roll 
The years, that poll 
Will get as bald as a billiard ball is; 
Then shall your skin, now pink and dimply, 
Be tanned to parchment, sear and pimply! 

When you behold 
Yourself grown old, 
These words shall speak your spirits moody; 
"Unhappy one! 
What heaps of fun 
I 've missed by being goody-goody! 
Oh, that I might have felt the hunger 
Of loveless age when I was younger!" 



THE HAPPY ISLES 

Oh, come with me to the Happy Isles 

In the golden haze off yonder, 
Where the song of the sun-kissed breeze beguiles 

And the ocean loves to wander. 

Fragrant the vines that mantle those hills, 

Proudly the fig rejoices, 
Merrily dance the virgin rills, 

Blending their myriad voices. 



374 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM 

Our herds shall suffer no evil there, 
But peacefully feed and rest them; 

Never thereto shall prowling bear 
Or serpent come to molest them. 

Neither shall Eurus, wanton bold, 
Nor feverish drought distress us, 

But he that compasseth heat and cold 
Shall temper them both to bless us. 

There no vandal foot has trod, 
And the pirate hordes that wander 

Shall never profane the sacred sod 
Of those beautiful isles out yonder. 

Never a spell shall blight our vines, 
Nor Sirius blaze above us, 

But you and I shall drink our wines 
And sing to the loved that love us. 

So come with me where Fortune smiles 
And the gods invite devotion, — 

Oh, come with me to the Happy Isles 
In the haze of that far-off ocean! 



CONSISTENCY 

Should painter attach to a fair human head 
The thick, turgid neck of a stallion, 

Or depict a spruce lass with the tail of a bass, 
I am sure you would guy the rapscallion. 

Believe me, dear Pisos, that just such a freak 
Is the crude and preposterous poem 

Which merely abounds in a torrent of sounds, 
With no depth of reason below 'em. 



TO POSTUMUS 375 

'T is all very well to give license to art, — 

The wisdom of license defend I; 
But the line should be drawn at the fripperish spawn 

Of a mere cacoethes scribendi. 

It is too much the fashion to strain at effects, — 
Yes, that 's what 's the matter with Hannah! 

Our popular taste, by the tyros debased, 
Paints each barnyard a grove of Diana! 

Should a patron require you to paint a marine, 

Would you work in some trees with their barks on? 

When his strict orders are for a Japanese jar, 
Would you give him a pitcher like Clarkson ? 

Now, this is my moral: Compose what you may, 

And Fame will be ever far distant 
Unless you combine with a simple design 

A treatment in toto consistent. 



TO POSTUMUS 

O postumus, my Postumus, the years are gliding past, 
And piety will never check the wrinkles coming fast, 
The ravages of time old age's swift advance has made, 
And death, which unimpeded comes to bear us to the shade. 

Old friend, although the tearless Pluto you may strive to please, 
And seek each year with thrice one hundred bullocks to appease, 
Who keeps the thrice-huge Geryon and Tityus his slaves, 
Imprisoned fast forevermore with cold and sombre waves, 

Yet must that flood so terrible be sailed by mortals all; 
Whether perchance we may be kings and live in royal hall, 
Or lowly peasants struggling long with poverty and dearth, 
Still must we cross who live upon the favors of the earth. 



376 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM 

And all in vain from bloody war and contest we are free, 

And from the waves that hoarsely break upon the Adrian Sea; 

For our frail bodies all in vain our helpless terror grows 

In gloomy autumn seasons, when the baneful south wind blows. 

Alas! the black Cocytus, wandering to the world below, 
That languid river to behold we of this earth must go; 
To see the grim Danaides, that miserable race, 
And Sisyphus of iEolus, condemned to endless chase. 

Behind you must you leave your home and land and wife so dear, 
And of the trees, except the hated cypresses, you rear, 
And which around the funeral piles as signs of mourning grow, 
Not one will follow you, their short-lived master, there below. 

Your worthier heir the precious Csecuban shall drink galore, 
Now with a hundred keys preserved and guarded in your store, 
And stain the pavements, pouring out in waste the nectar proud, 
Better than that with which the pontiffs' feasts have been endowed. 



TO MISTRESS PYRRHA 



What perfumed, posie-dizened sirrah, 

With smiles for diet, 
Clasps you, O fair but faithless Pyrrha, 

On the quiet? 
For whom do you bind up your tresses, 

As spun-gold yellow, — 
Meshes that go with your caresses, 

To snare a fellow? 

How will he rail at fate capricious, 

And curse you duly, 
Yet now he deems your wiles delicious,- 

You perfect, truly ! 



TO MISTRESS PYRRHA 377 

Pyrrha, your love 's a treacherous ocean; 

He '11 soon fall in there! 
Then shall I gloat on his commotion, 

For / have been there! 



TO MISTRESS PYRRHA 

ii 

What dainty boy with sweet perfumes bedewed 
Has lavished kisses, Pyrrha, in the cave? 
For whom amid the roses, many-hued, 
Do you bind back your tresses' yellow wave? 

How oft will he deplore your fickle whim, 

And wonder at the storm and roughening deeps, 

Who now enjoys you, all in all to him, 

And dreams of you, whose only thoughts he keeps. 

Wretched are they to whom you seem so fair; — 
That I escaped the storms, the gods be praised! 
My dripping garments, offered with a prayer, 
Stand as a tablet to the sea-god raised. 



TO MELPOMENE 

Lofty and enduring is the monument I 've reared: 

Come, tempests, with your bitterness assailing; 
And thou, corrosive blasts of time, by all things mortal feared, 

Thy buffets and thy rage are unavailing! 

I shall not altogether die: by far my greater part 
Shall mock man's common fate in realms infernal; 

My works shall live as tributes to my genius and my art, — 
My works shall be my monument eternal! 

While this great Roman empire stands and gods protect our fanes, 
Mankind with grateful hearts shall tell the story 

How one most lowly born upon the parched Apulian plains 
First raised the native lyric muse to glory. 



378 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM 

Assume, revered Melpomene, the proud estate I 've won, 
And, with thine own dear hand the meed supplying, 

Bind thou about the forehead of thy celebrated son 
The Delphic laurel-wreath of fame undying! 



TO PHYLLIS 



Come, Phyllis, I 've a cask of wine 
That fairly reeks with precious juices, 

And in your tresses you shall twine 

The loveliest flowers this vale produces. 

My cottage wears a gracious smile; 

The altar, decked in floral glory, 
Yearns for the lamb which bleats the while 

As though it pined for honors gory. 

Hither our neighbors nimbly fare, 

The boys agog, the maidens snickering; 

And savory smells possess the air, 

As skyward kitchen flames are flickering. 

You ask what means this grand display, 
This festive throng and goodly diet? 

Well, since you're bound to have your way, 
I don't mind telling, on the quiet. 

'T is April 13, as you know, 

A day and month devote to Venus, 

Whereon was born, some years ago, 
My very worthy friend, Maecenas. 

Nay, pay no heed to Telephus; 

Your friends agree he does n't love you. 
The way he flirts convinces us 

He really is not worthy of you. 



TO PHYLLIS 379 

Aurora's son, unhappy lad! 

You know the fate that overtook him? 
And Pegasus a rider had, — 

I say he had, before he shook him! 

Hoc docet (as you must agree) 

'T is meet that Phyllis should discover 

A wisdom in preferring me, 

And mittening every other lover. 

So come, O Phyllis, last and best 

Of loves with which this heart 's been smitten, 
Come, sing my jealous fears to rest, 

And let your songs be those / 've written. 



TO PHYLLIS 

ii 

Sweet Phyllis, I have here a jar of old and precious wine, 
The years which mark its coming from the Alban hills are nine 
And in the garden parsley, too, for wreathing garlands fair, 
And ivy in profusion to bind up your shining hair. 

Now smiles the house with silver; the altar, laurel-bound, 
Longs with the sacrificial blood of lambs to drip around; 
The company is hurrying, boys and maidens with the rest; 
The names are flickering as they whirl the dark smoke on their crest. 

Yet you must know the joys to which you have been summoned here 
To keep the Ides of April, to the sea-born Venus dear, — 
Ah, festal day more sacred than my own fair day of birth, 
Since from its dawn my loved Maecenas counts his years of earth. 

A rich and wanton girl has caught, as suited to her mind, 

The Telephus whom you desire, — a youth not of your kind. 

She holds him bound with pleasing chains, the fetters of her 

charms, — 
Remember how scorched Phaethon ambitious hopes alarms. 



380 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM 

The winged Pegasus the rash Bellerophon has chafed, 
To you a grave example for reflection has vouchsafed, — 
Always to follow what is meet, and never try to catch 
That which is not allowed to you, an inappropriate match. 

Come now, sweet Phyllis, of my loves the last, and hence the best 
(For nevermore shall other girls inflame this manly breast) ; 
Learn loving measures to rehearse as we may stroll along, 
And dismal cares shall fly away and vanish at your song. 



TO CHLOE 



Why do you shun me, Chloe, like the fawn, 
That, fearful of the breezes and the wood, 

Has sought her timorous mother since the dawn, 
And on the pathless mountain tops has stood? 

Her trembling heart a thousand fears invites, 
Her sinking knees with nameless terrors shake,- 

Whether the rustling leaf of spring affrights, 
Or the green lizards stir the slumbering brake. 

I do not follow with a tigerish thought, 
Or with the fierce Gsetulian lion's quest; 

So, quickly leave your mother, as you ought, 
Full ripe to nestle on a husband's breast. 



TO CHLOE 
ii 

Chloe, you shun me like a hind 
That, seeking vainly for her mother, 

Hears danger in each breath of wind, 
And wildly darts this way and t' other; 



TO CHLOE 381 

Whether the breezes sway the wood 

Or lizards scuttle through the brambles, 

She starts, and off, as though pursued, 

The foolish, frightened creature scrambles. 

But, Chloe, you 're no infant thing 

That should esteem a man an ogre; 
Let go your mother's apron-string, 

And pin your faith upon a toga! 

in 

A PARAPHRASE 

How happens it, my cruel miss, 

You 're always giving me the mitten? 

You seem to have forgotten this: 
That you no longer are a kitten! 

A woman that has reached the years 

Of that which people call discretion 
Should put aside all childish fears 

And see in courtship no transgression. 

A mother's solace may be sweet, 

But Hymen's tenderness is sweeter; 
And though all virile love be meet, 

You '11 find the poet's love is metre. 

IV 
A PARAPHRASE, CIRCA 1715 

Since Chloe is so monstrous fair, 
With such an eye and such an air, 
What wonder that the world complains 
When she each am'rous suit disdains? 

Close to her mother's side she clings, 
And mocks the death her folly brings 
To gentle swains that feel the smarts 
Her eyes inflict upon their hearts. 



382 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM 

Whilst thus the years of youth go by, 
Shall Colin languish, Strephon die? 
Nay, cruel nymph! come, choose a mate, 
And choose him ere it be too late! 



A PARAPHRASE, BY DR. I. W. 

Why, Mistress Chloe, do you bother 
With prattlings and with vain ado 

Your worthy and industrious mother, 
Eschewing them that come to woo? 

Oh, that the awful truth might quicken 
This stern conviction to your breast: 

You are no longer now a chicken 
Too young to quit the parent nest. 

So put aside your froward carriage, 

And fix your thoughts, whilst yet there's time, 
Upon the righteousness of marriage 

With some such godly man as I 'm. 



VI 
A PARAPHRASE, BY CHAUCER 

Syn that you, Chloe, to your moder sticken, 
Maketh all ye yonge bacheloures full sicken; 
Like as a lyttel deere you ben y-hiding 
Whenas come lovers with theyre pityse chiding. 
Sothly it ben faire to give up your moder 
For to beare swete company with some oder; 
Your moder ben well enow so farre shee goeth, 
But that ben not farre enow, God knoweth; 
Wherefore it ben sayed that foolysh ladyes 
That marrye not shall leade an aype in Hadys; 
But all that do with gode men wed full quicklye 
When that they be on dead go to ye seints full sickerly. 



TO MAECENAS 383 



TO MAECENAS 

Than you, O valued friend of mine, 

A better patron non est! 
Come, quaff my home-made Sabine wine,- 

You '11 find it poor but honest. 

I put it up that famous day 

You patronized the ballet, 
And the public cheered you such a way 

As shook your native valley. 

Csecuban and the Calean brand 
May elsewhere claim attention; 

But / have none of these on hand, — 
For reasons I '11 not mention. 



ENVOY 

So, come! though favors I bestow 

Cannot be called extensive, 
Who better than my friend should know 

That they 're at least expensive ? 



TO BARINE 

If for your oath broken, or word lightly spoken, 
A plague comes, Barine, to grieve you; 
If on tooth or on finger a black mark shall linger 
Your beauty to mar, I '11 believe you. 

But no sooner, the fact is, you bind, as your tact is, 

Your head with the vows of untruth, 

Than you shine out more charming, and, what 's more 

alarming, 
You come forth beloved of our vouth. 



384 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM 

It is advantageous, but no less outrageous, 
Your poor mother's ashes to cheat; 
While the gods of creation and each constellation 
You seem to regard as your meat. 

Now Venus, I own it, is pleased to condone it; 
The good-natured nymphs merely smile; 
And Cupid is merry, — 't is humorous, very, — 
And sharpens his arrows the while. 

Our boys you are making the slaves for your taking, 
A new band is joined to the old; 
While the horrified matrons your juvenile patrons 
In vain would bring back to the fold. 

The thrifty old fellows your loveliness mellows 
Confess to a dread of your house; 
But a more pressing duty, in view of your beauty, 
Is the young wife's concern for her spouse. 



THE RECONCILIATION 
i 

HE 

When you were mine, in auld lang syne, 

And when none else your charms might ogle, 

I '11 not deny, fair nymph, that I 
Was happier than a heathen mogul. 

SHE 

Before she came, that rival flame 

(Had ever mater saucier fllia?), 
In those good times, bepraised in rhymes, 

I was more famed than Mother Ilia. 



THE RECONCILIATION 385 

HE 

Chloe of Thrace! With what a grace 
Does she at song or harp employ her! 

I 'd gladly die, if only I 

Could live forever to enjoy her! 

SHE 

My Sybaris so noble is 

That, by the gods, I love him madly! 
That I might save him from the grave, 

I 'd give my life, and give it gladly! 

HE 

What if ma belle from favor fell, 

And I made up my mind to shake her; 

Would Lydia then come back again, 
And to her quondam love betake her? 

SHE 

My other beau should surely go, 

And you alone should find me gracious; 

For no one slings such odes and things 
As does the lauriger Horatius! 



THE RECONCILIATION 

ii 

HORACE 

While favored by thy smiles no other youth in amorous teasing 
Around thy snowy neck his folding arms was 'wont to fling; 

As long as I remained your love, acceptable and pleasing, 
I lived a life of happiness beyond the Persian king. 

LYDIA 

While Lydia ranked Chloe in your unreserved opinion, 
And for no other cherished thou a brighter, livelier flame, 

I, Lydia, distinguished throughout the whole dominion, 
Surpassed the Roman Ilia in eminence of fame. 



386 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM 

HORACE 

'T is now the Thracian Chloe whose accomplishments inthrall 
me, — 

So sweet in modulations, such a mistress of the lyre. 
In truth the fates, however terrible, could not appall me; 

If they would spare her, sweet my soul, I gladly would expire. 

LYDIA 

And now the son of Ornytus, young Calais, inflames me 
With mutual, restless passion and an all-consuming fire; 

And if the fates, however dread, would spare the youth who claims 
me, 
Not only once would I face death, but gladly twice expire. 

HORACE 

What if our early love returns to prove we were mistaken 

And bind with brazen yoke the twain, to part, ah ! nevermore ? 

What if the charming Chloe of the golden locks be shaken 
And slighted Lydia again glide through the open door? 

LYDIA 

Though he is fairer than the star that shines so far above you, 
Thou lighter than a cork, more stormy than the Adrian Sea, 

Still should I long to live with you, to live for you and love 
you, 
And cheerfully see death's approach if thou wert near to me. 



THE ROASTING OF LYDIA 

No more your needed rest at night 
By ribald youth is troubled; 

No more your windows, fastened tight, 
Yield to their knocks redoubled. 



TO GLYCERA 387 

No longer you may hear them cry, 

"Why art thou, Lydia, lying 
In heavy sleep till morn is nigh, 

"While I, your love, am dying?" 

Grown old and faded, you bewail 

The rake's insulting sally, 
While round your home the Thracian gale 

Storms through the lonely alley. 

What furious thoughts will fill your breast, 

What passions, fierce and tinglish 
(Cannot be properly expressed 

In calm, reposeful English). 

Learn this, and hold your carping tongue: 

Youth will be found rejoicing 
In ivy green and myrtle young, 

The praise of fresh life voicing; 

And not content to dedicate, 

With much protesting shiver, 
The sapless leaves to winter's mate, 

Hebrus, the cold dark river. 



TO GLYCERA 

The cruel mother of the Loves, 

And other Powers offended, 
Have stirred my heart, where newly roves 

The passion that was ended. 

'T is Glycera, to boldness prone, 
Whose radiant beauty fires me; 

While fairer than the Parian stone 
Her dazzling face inspires me. 



388 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM 

And on from Cyprus Venus speeds, 
Forbidding — ah! the pity — 
• The Scythian lays, the Parthian meeds, 
And such irrelevant ditty. 

Here, boys, bring turf and vervain too; 

Have bowls of wine adjacent; 
And ere our sacrifice is through 

She may be more complaisant. 



TO LYDIA 



When, Lydia, you (once fond and true, 
But now grown cold and supercilious) 

Praise Telly's charms of neck and arms — 
Well, by the dog! it makes me bilious! 

Then with despite my cheeks wax white, 
My doddering brain gets weak and giddy, 

My eyes o'erflow with tears which show 
That passion melts my vitals, Liddy! 

Deny, false jade, your escapade, 

And, lo! your wounded shoulders show it! 
No manly spark left such a mark — 

Leastwise he surely was no poet! 

With savage buss did Telephus 

Abrade your lips, so plump and mellow; 
As you would save what Venus gave, 

I charge you shun that awkward fellow! 

And now I say thrice happy they 
That call on Hymen to requite 'em; 

For, though love cools, the wedded fools 
Must cleave till death doth disunite 'em. 



TO LYDIA 389 

TO LYDIA 

ii 

When praising Telephus you sing 

His rosy neck and waxen arms, 
Forgetful of the pangs that wring 

This heart for my neglected charms, 

Soft down my cheek the tear-drop flows, 

My color comes and goes the while, 
And my rebellious liver glows, 

And fiercely swells with laboring bile. 

Perchance yon silly, passionate youth, 

Distempered by the fumes of wine, 
Has marred your shoulder with his tooth, 

Or scarred those rosy lips of thine. 

Be warned; he cannot faithful prove, 

Who, with the cruel kiss you prize, 
Has hurt the little mouth I love, 

Where Venus's own nectar lies. 

Whom golden links unbroken bind, 

Thrice happy — more than thrice are they; 

And constant, both in heart and mind, 
In love await the final day. 



TO QUINTIUS HIRPINUS 

To Scythian and Cantabrian plots, 
Pay them no heed, O Quintius! 

So long as we 

From care are free, 
Vexations cannot cinch us. 



390 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM 

Unwrinkled youth and grace, forsooth, 
Speed hand in hand together; 

The songs we sing 

In time of spring 
Are hushed in wintry weather. 

Why, even flow'rs change with the hours, 
And the moon has divers phases; 
And shall the mind 
Be racked to find 
A clew to Fortune's mazes? 

Nay; 'neath this tree let you and me 
Woo Bacchus to caress us; 

We 're old, 't is true, 

But still we two 
Are thoroughbreds, God bless us! 

While the wine gets cool in yonder pool, 
Let's spruce up nice and tidy; 

Who knows, old boy, 

But we may decoy 
The fair but furtive Lyde? 

She can execute on her ivory lute 
Sonatas full of passion, 
And she bangs her hair 
(Which is passing fair) 
In the good old Spartan fashion. 



WINE, WOMEN, AND SONG 

O Varus mine, 
Plant thou the vine 

Within this kindly soil of Tibur; 
Nor temporal woes, 
Nor spiritual, knows 

The man who 's a discreet imbiber. 



AN ODE TO FORTUNE 391 

For who doth croak 

Of being broke, 
Or who of warfare, after drinking ? 

With bowl atween us, 

Of smiling Venus 
And Bacchus shall we sing, I 'm thinking. 

Of symptoms fell 

Which brawls impel, 
Historic data give us warning; 

The wretch who fights 

When full, of nights, 
Is bound to have a head next morning. 

I do not scorn 

A friendly horn, 
But noisy toots, I can't abide 'em! 

Your howling bat 

Is stale and flat 
To one who knows, because he 's tried 'em ! 

The secrets of 

The life I love 
(Companionship with girls and toddy) 

I would not drag 

With drunken brag 
Into the ken of everybody; 

But in the shade 

Let some coy maid 
With smilax wreathe my flagon's nozzle, 

Then all day long, 

With mirth and song, 
Shall I enjoy a quiet sozzle! 



AN ODE TO FORTUNE 

O Lady Fortune! 't is to thee I call, 
Dwelling at Antium, thou hast power to crown 
The veriest clod with riches and renown, 



392 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM 

And change a triumph to a funeral. 
The tillers of the soil and they that vex the seas, 
Confessing thee supreme, on bended knees 

Invoke thee, all. 

Of Dacian tribes, of roving Scythian bands, 
Of cities, nations, lawless tyrants red 
With guiltless blood, art thou the haunting dread; 

Within thy path no human valor stands, 
And, arbiter of empires, at thy frown 
The sceptre, once supreme, slips surely down 

From kingly hands. 

Necessity precedes thee in thy way; 
Hope fawns on thee, and Honor, too, is seen 
Dancing attendance with obsequious mien; 

But with what coward and abject dismay 
The faithless crowd and treacherous wantons fly 
When once their jars of luscious wine run dry, — 

Such ingrates they! 

Fortune, I call on thee to bless 
Our king, — our Caesar girt for foreign wars! 
Help him to heal these fratricidal scars 

That speak degenerate shame and wickedness; 
And forge anew our impious spears and swords, 
Wherewith we may against barbarian hordes 

Our Past redress! 



TO A JAR OF WINE 

O gracious jar, — my friend, my twin, 

Born at the time when I was born, — 
Whether tomfoolery you inspire 
Or animate with love's desire, 

Or flame the soul with bitter scorn, 



TO POMPEIUS VARUS 393 

Or lull to sleep, O jar of mine! 

Come from your place this festal day; 

Corvinus hither wends his way, 
And there 's demand for wine! 

Corvinus is the sort of man 

Who dotes on tedious argument. 
An advocate, his ponderous pate 

Is full of Blackstone and of Kent; 
Yet not insensible is he, 
O genial Massic flood! to thee. 
Why, even Cato used to take 

A modest, surreptitious nip 
At meal-times for his stomach's sake, 

Or to forefend la grippe. 

How dost thou melt the stoniest hearts, 

And bare the cruel knave's design; 
How through thy fascinating arts 

We discount Hope, O gracious wine! 
And passing rich the poor man feels 
As through his veins thy affluence steals. 

Now, prithee, make us frisk and sing, 

And plot full many a naughty plot 
W T ith damsels fair — nor shall we care 

Whether school keeps or not! 
And whilst thy charms hold out to burn 

We shall not deign to go to bed, 

But we shall paint creation red; 
So, fill, sweet wine, this friend of mine, — 

My lawyer friend, as aforesaid. 



TO POMPEIUS VARUS 

Pompey, what fortune gives you back 

To the friends and the gods who love you? 

Once more you stand in your native land, 
With your native sky above you. 



394 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM 

Ah, side by side, in years agone, 
We 've faced tempestuous weather, 
And often quaffed 
The genial draught 
From the same canteen together. 

When honor at Philippi fell 
A prey to brutal passion, 
I regret to say that my feet ran away 

In swift Iambic fashion. 
You were no poet; soldier born, 

You stayed, nor did you wince then. 
Mercury came 
To my help, which same 
Has frequently saved me since then. 

But now you 're back, let 's celebrate 

In the good old way and classic; 
Come, let us lard our skins with nard, 

And bedew our souls with Massic! 
With fillets of green parsley leaves 
Our foreheads shall be done up; 
And with song shall we 
Protract our spree 
Until the morrow's sun-up. 



THE POET'S METAMORPHOSIS 

Maecenas, I propose to fly 

To realms beyond these human portals; 
No common things shall be my wings, 

But such as sprout upon immortals. 

Of lowly birth, once shed of earth, 

Your Horace, precious (so you 've told him), 
Shall soar away; no tomb of clay 

Nor Stygian prison-house shall hold him. 



TO VENUS 395 

Upon my skin feathers begin 

To warn the songster of his fleeting; 
But never mind, I leave behind 

Songs all the world shall keep repeating. 

Lo! Boston girls, with corkscrew curls, 
And husky westerns, wild and woolly, 

And southern climes shall vaunt my rhymes, 
And all profess to know me fully. 

Methinks the West shall know me best, 
And therefore hold my memory dearer; 

For by that lake a bard shall make 
My subtle, hidden meanings clearer. 

So cherished, I shall never die; 

Pray, therefore, spare your dolesome praises, 
Your elegies, and plaintive cries, 

For I shall fertilize no daisies! 



TO VENUS 

Venus, dear Cnidian-Paphian queen! 

Desert that Cyprus way off yonder, 
And fare you hence, where with incense 

My Glycera would have you fonder; 
And to your joy bring hence your boy, 

The Graces with unbelted laughter, 
The Nymphs, and Youth, — then, then, in sooth, 

Should Mercury come tagging after. 



396 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM 

IN THE SPRINGTIME 



'T is spring! The boats bound to the sea; 

The breezes, loitering kindly over 
The fields, again bring herds and men 

The grateful cheer of honeyed clover. 

Now Venus hither leads her train; 

The Nymphs and Graces join in orgies; 
The moon is bright, and by her light 

Old Vulcan kindles up his forges. 

Bind myrtle now about your brow, 

And weave fair flowers in maiden tresses; 

Appease god Pan, who, kind to man, 
Our fleeting life with affluence blesses; 

But let the changing seasons mind us, 

That Death 's the certain doom of mortals,- 

Grim Death, who waits at humble gates, 
And likewise stalks though kingly portals. 

Soon, Sestius, shall Plutonian shades 
Enfold you with their hideous seemings; 

Then love and mirth and joys of earth 
Shall fade away like fevered dreamings. 



IN THE SPRINGTIME 

ii 

The western breeze is springing up, the ships are in the bay, . 
And spring has brought a happy change as winter melts away. 
No more in stall or fire the herd or ploughman finds delight; 
No longer with the biting frosts the open fields are white. 

Our Lady of Cythera now prepares to lead the dance, 
While from above the kindly moon gives an approving glance; 
The Nymphs and comely Graces join with Venus and the choir, 
And Vulcan's glowing fancy lightly turns to thoughts of fire. 



TO A BULLY 397 

Now it is time with myrtle green to crown the shining pate, 
And with the early blossoms of the spring to decorate; 
To sacrifice to Faunus, on whose favor we rely, 
A sprightly lamb, mayhap a kid, as he may specify. 

Impartially the feet of Death at huts and castles strike; 
The influenza carries off the rich and poor alike. 
O Sestius, though blessed you are beyond the common run, 
Life is too short to cherish e'en a distant hope begun. 

The Shades and Pluto's mansion follow hard upon the grip. 
Once there you cannot throw the dice, nor taste the wine you sip; 
Nor look on blooming Lycidas, whose beauty you commend, 
To whom the girls will presently their courtesies extend. 



TO A BULLY 

You, blatant coward that you are, 
Upon the helpless vent your spite. 

Suppose you ply your trade on me; 

Come, monkey with this bard, and see 
How I '11 repay your bark with bite! 

Ay, snarl just once at me, you brute! 

And I shall hound you far and wide, 
As fiercely as through drifted snow 
The shepherd dog pursues what foe 

Skulks on the Spartan mountain-side. 

The chip is on my shoulder — see ? 

But touch it and I '11 raise your fur; 
I 'm full of business, so beware ! 
For, though I 'm loaded up for bear, 

I 'm quite as like to kill a cur! 



398 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM 



TO MOTHER VENUS 

Mother Venus, quit, I pray, 
Your violent assailing! 

The arts, forsooth, that fired my youth 

At last are unavailing; 
My blood runs cold, I 'm getting old, 

And all my powers are failing. 

Speed thou upon thy white swan's wings, 
And elsewhere deign to mellow 

With thy soft arts the anguished hearts 
Of swains that writhe and bellow; 

And right away seek out, I pray, 
Young Paullus, — he 's your fellow ! 

You '11 find young Paullus passing fair, 

Modest, refined, and tony; 
Go, now, incite the favored wight! 

With Venus for a crony 
He '11 outshine all at feast and ball 

And conversazione! 

Then shall that godlike nose of thine 

With perfumes be requited, 
And then shall prance in Salian dance 

The girls and boys delighted, 
And while the lute blends with the flute 

Shall tender loves be plighted. 

But as for me, as you can see, 
I 'm getting old and spiteful. 

1 have no mind to female kind, 
That once I deemed delightful; 

No more brim up the festive cup 
That sent me home at night full. 

Why do I falter in my speech, 
O cruel Ligurine? 



TO LYDIA 399 

Why do I chase from place to place 

In weather wet and shiny ? 
Why down my nose forever flows 

The tear that 's cold and briny ? 



TO LYDIA 

Tell me, Lydia, tell me why, 

By the gods that dwell above, 

Sybaris makes haste to die 

Through your cruel, fatal love. 

Now he hates the sunny plain; 

Once he loved its dust and heat. 
Now no more he leads the train 

Of his peers on coursers fleet. 

Now he dreads the Tiber's touch, 
And avoids the wrestling-rings, — 

He who formerly was such 

An expert with quoits and things. 

Come, now, Mistress Lydia, say 

Why your Sybaris lies hid, 
Why he shuns the martial play, 
As we 're told Achilles did. 



TO NEOBULE 

A sorry life, forsooth, these wretched girls are undergoing, 
Restrained from draughts of pleasant wine, from loving favors 

showing, 
For fear an uncle's tongue a reprimand will be bestowing! 

Sweet Cytherea's winged boy deprives you of your spinning, 
And Hebrus, Neobule, his sad havoc is beginning, 
Just as Minerva thriftily gets ready for an inning. 



400 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM 

Who could resist this gallant youth, as Tiber's waves he breasted, 
Or when the palm of riding from Bellerophon he wrested, 
Or when with fists and feet the sluggers easily he bested ? 

He shot the fleeting stags with regularity surprising; 

The way he intercepted boars was quite beyond surmising, — 

No wonder that your thoughts this youth has been monopolizing! 

So I repeat that with these maids fate is unkindly dealing, 
Who never can in love's affair give license to their feeling, 
Or share those sweet emotions when a gentle jag is stealing. 



AT THE BALL GAME 

What gods or heroes, whose brave deeds none can dispute, 
Will you record, O Clio, on the harp and flute? 
What lofty names shall sportive Echo grant a place 
On Pindus' crown or Helicon's cool, shadowy space? 

Sing not, my Orpheus, sweeping oft the tuneful strings, 
Of gliding streams and nimble winds and such poor things; 
But lend your measures to a theme of noble thought, 
And crown with laurel these great heroes, as you ought. 

Now steps Ryanus forth at call of furious Mars, 

And from his oaken staff the sphere speeds to the stars; 

And now he gains the tertiary goal, and turns, 

While whiskered balls play round the timid staff of Burns. 

Lo! from the tribunes on the bleachers comes a shout, 

Beseeching bold Ansonius to line 'em out; 

And as Apollo's flying chariot cleaves the sky, 

So stanch Ansonius lifts the frightened ball on high. 

Like roar of ocean beating on the Cretan cliff, 
The strong Komiske gives the panting sphere a biff; 
And from the tribunes rise loud murmurs everywhere, 
When twice and thrice Mikeliius beats the mocking air. 



EPILOGUE 401 

And as Achilles' fleet the Trojan waters sweeps, 
So horror sways the throng, — Pfefferius sleeps! 
And stalwart Konnor, though by Mercury inspired, 
The Equus Carolus defies, and is retired. 

So waxes fierce the strife between these godlike men; 
And as the hero's fame grows by Virgilian pen, 
So let Clarksonius Maximus be raised to heights 
As far above the moon as moon o'er lesser lights. 

But as for me, the ivy leaf is my reward, 
If you a place among the lyric bards accord; 
With crest exalted, and O "People," with delight, 
I '11 proudly strike the stars, and so be out of sight. 



EPILOGUE 

The day is done; and, lo! the shades 
Melt 'neath Diana's mellow grace. 

Hark, how those deep, designing maids 
Feign terror in this sylvan place! 

Come, friends, it 's time that we should go; 

We 're honest married folk, you know. 

Was not the wine delicious cool 

Whose sweetness Pyrrha's smile enhanced? 
And by that clear Bandusian pool 

How gayly Chloe sung and danced! 
And Lydia Die, — aha, methinks 
You '11 not forget the saucy minx! 

But, oh, the echoes of those songs 

That soothed our cares and lulled our hearts! 
Not to that age nor this belongs 

The glory of what heaven-born arts 
Speak with the old distinctive charm 
From yonder humble Sabine farm! 



402 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM 

The day is done. Now off to bed, 
Lest by some rural ruse surprised, 

And by those artful girls misled, 
You two be sadly compromised. 

You go; perhaps I [d better stay 

To shoo the giddy things away! 

But sometime we shall meet again 
Beside Digentia, cool and clear, — 

You and we twain, old friend; and then 
We '11 have our fill of pagan cheer. 

Then, could old Horace join us three, 

How proud and happy he would be! 

Or if we part to meet no more 
This side the misty Stygian Sea, 

Be sure of this: on yonder shore 
Sweet cheer awaiteth such as we; 

A Sabine pagan's heaven, O friend, — 

The fellowship that knows no end! 



LYDIA DICK 

When I was a boy at college, 
Filling up with classic knowledge, 

Frequently I wondered why 
Old Professor Demas Bentley 
Used to praise so eloquently 

" Opera Horatii." 

Toiling on a season longer 

Till my reasoning powers got stronger, 

As my observation grew, 
I became convinced that mellow, 
Massic-loving poet fellow, 

Horace, knew a thing or two. 



LYDIA DICK 403 

Yes, we sophomores figured duly 
That, if we appraised him truly, 

Horace must have been a brick; 
And no wonder that with ranting 
Rhymes he went a-gallivanting 

Round with sprightly Lydia Dick! 

For that pink of female gender 
Tall and shapely was, and slender, 

Plump of neck and bust and arms; 
While the raiment that invested 
Her so jealously suggested 

Certain more potential charms. 

Those dark eyes of hers that fired him, 
Those sweet accents that inspired him, 

And her crown of glorious hair, — 
These things baffle my description: 
I should have a fit conniption 

If I tried; so I forbear. 

Maybe Lydia had her betters; 
Anyway, this man of letters 

Took that charmer as his pick. 
Glad — yes, glad I am to know it! 
I, a fin de siecle poet, 

Sympathize with Lydia Dick! 

Often in my arbor shady 
I fall thinking of that lady, 

And the pranks she used to play; 
And I 'm cheered, — for all we sages 
Joy when from those distant ages 

Lydia dances down our way. 

Otherwise some folks might wonder, 
With good reason, why in thunder 

Learned professors, dry and prim, 
Find such solace in the giddy 
Pranks that Horace played with Liddy 

Or that Liddy played on him. 



404 ECHOES FROM THE SABINE FARM 

Still this world of ours rejoices 
In those ancient singing voices, 

And our hearts beat high and quick, 
To the cadence of old Tiber 
Murmuring praise of roistering Liber 

And of charming Lydia Dick. 

Still Digentia, downward flowing, 
Prattleth to the roses blowing 

By the dark, deserted grot. 
Still Soracte, looming lonely, 
Watcheth for the coming only 

Of a ghost that cometh not. 



IN PRAISE OF CONTENTMENT 

I hate the common, vulgar herd! 

Away they scamper when I "booh" em! 
But pretty girls and nice young men 
Observe a proper silence when 

I choose to sing my lyrics to 'em. 

The kings of earth, whose fleeting pow'r 
Excites our homage and our wonder, 

Are precious small beside old Jove, 

The father of us all, who drove 

The giants out of sight, by thunder! 

This man loves farming, that man lav,, 
While this one follows pathways martial- 

What boots it whither mortals turn? 

Grim fate from her mysterious urn 
Doles out the lots with hand impartial. 

Nor sumptuous feasts nor studied sports 
Delight the heart by care tormented; 



IN PRAISE OF CONTENTMENT 405 

The mightiest monarch knoweth not 
The peace that to the lowly cot 

Sleep bringeth to the swain contented. 

On him untouched of discontent 

Care sits as lightly as a feather; 
He does n't growl about the crops, 
Or worry when the market drops, 

Or fret about the changeful weather. 

Not so with him who, rich in fact, 

Still seeks his fortune to redouble; 
Though dig he deep or build he high, 
Those scourges twain shall lurk anigh — 

Relentless Care, relentless Trouble! 

If neither palaces nor robes 

Nor unguents nor expensive toddy 
Insure Contentment's soothing bliss, 
Why should I build an edifice 

Where Envy comes to fret a body? 

Nay, I 'd not share your sumptuous cheer, 

But rather sup my rustic pottage, 
While that sweet boon the gods bestow — 
The peace your mansions cannot know — 

Blesseth my lowly Sabine cottage. 



VARIOUS TRANSLATIONS 



UHLAND'S WHITE STAG 

Into the woods three huntsmen came, 
Seeking the white stag for their game. 

They laid them under a green fir-tree 

And slept, and dreamed strange things to see. 

(first huntsman) 

I dreamt I was beating the leafy brush, 
When out popped the noble stag — hush, hush! 

(second huntsman) 

As ahead of the clamorous pack he sprang, 
I pelted him hard in the hide — piff, bang! 

(third huntsman) 

And as that stag lay dead I blew 
On my horn a lusty tir- ril- la-loo ! 

So speak the three as there they lay 
When lo! the white stag sped that way, 

Frisked his heels at those huntsmen three, 
Then leagues o'er hill and dale was he — 
Hush, hush! Piff, bang! Tir-ril-la-loo ! 
406 



A PARAPHRASE OF HEINE 407 

A PARAPHRASE OF HEINE 

(lyric intermezzo) 

There fell a star from realms above — 

A glittering, glorious star to see! 
Methought it was the star of love, 

So sweetly it illumined me. 

And from the apple branches fell 

Blossoms and leaves that time in June; 

The wanton breezes wooed them well 
With soft caress and amorous tune. 

The white swan proudly sailed along 
And vied her beauty with her note — 

The river, jealous of her song, 

Threw up its arms to clasp her throat. 

But now — oh, now the dream is past — 
The blossoms and the leaves are dead, 

The swan's sweet song is hushed at last, 
And not a star burns overhead. 



OLD SPANISH SONG 

I 'm thinking of the wooing 

That won my maiden heart 
When he — he came pursuing 

A love unused to art. 
Into the drowsy river 

The moon transported flung 
Her soul that seemed to quiver 

With the songs my lover sung. 
And the stars in rapture twinkled 

On the slumbrous world below- 
You see that, old and wrinkled, 

I 'm not forgetful — no! 



408 VARIOUS TRANSLATIONS 

He still should be repeating 

The vows he uttered then — 
Alas! the years, though fleeting, 

Are truer yet than men! 
The summer moonlight glistens 

In the favorite trysting spot 
Where the river ever listens 

For a song it heareth not. 
And I, whose head is sprinkled 

With time's benumbing snow, 
I languish, old and wrinkled, 

But not forgetful — no! 

What though he elsewhere turneth 

To beauty strangely bold? 
Still in my bosom burneth 

The tender fire of old; 
And the words of love he told me 

And the songs he sung me then 
Come crowding to uphold me, 

And I live my youth again! 
For when love's feet have tinkled 

On the pathway women go, 
Though one be old and wrinkled, 

She 's not forgetful — no! 



UHLAND'S "CHAPEL" 

Yonder stands the hillside chapel 
'Mid the evergreens and rocks, 

All day long it hears the song 
Of the shepherd to his flocks. 

Then the chapel bell goes tolling — 
Knelling for a soul that 's sped; 

Silent and sad the shepherd lad 
Hears the requiem for the dead. 



A HEINE LOVE SONG 409 

Shepherd, singers of the valley, 

Voiceless now, speed on before; 
Soon shall knell that chapel bell 

For the songs you '11 sing no more. 



A HEINE LOVE SONG 

The image of the moon at night 
All trembling in the ocean lies, 

But she, with calm and steadfast light, 
Moves proudly through the radiant skies. 

How like the tranquil moon thou art — 
Thou fairest flower of womankind! 

And, look, within my fluttering heart 
Thy image trembling is enshrined! 



BERANGER'S "TO MY OLD COAT." 

Still serve me in my age, I pray, 

As in my youth, O faithful one; 
For years I 've brushed thee every day — 

Could Socrates have better done? 
What though the fates would wreak on thee 

The fulness of their evil art? 
Use thou philosophy, like me — 

And we, old friend, shall never part! 

I think — I often think of it — 

The day we twain first faced the crowd; 
My roistering friends impeached your fit, 

But you and I were very proud! 
Those jovial friends no more make free 

With us (no longer new and smart), 
But rather welcome you and me 

As loving friends that should not part. 



410 VARIOUS TRANSLATIONS 

The patch? Oh, yes — one happy night — 

"Lisette," says I, "it 's time to go" — 
She clutched this sleeve to stay my flight, 

Shrieking: "What! leave so early? No! 
To mend the ghastly rent she 'd made, 

Three days she toiled, dear patient heart! 
And I — right willingly I stayed — 

Lisette decreed we should not part! 

No incense ever yet profaned 

This honest, shiny warp of thine, 
Nor hath a courtier's eye disdained 

Thy faded hue and quaint design; 
Let servile flattery be the price 

Of ribbons in the royal mart — 
A roadside posie shall suffice 

For us two friends that must not part! 

Fear not the recklessness of yore 

Shall reoccur to vex thee now; 
Alas, I am a youth no more — 

I 'm old and sere, and so art thou! 
So bide with me unto the last 

And with thy warmth caress this heart 
That pleads, by memories of the Past, 

That two such friends should never part! 



A SPRING POEM FROM BION 

One asketh: 
"Tell me, Myrson, tell me true: 
What 's the season pleaseth you ? 
Is it summer suits you best, 
When from harvest toil we rest? 
Is it autumn with its glory 
Of all surfeited desires ? 



MOTHER AND SPHINX 411 

Is it winter, when with story 

And with song we hug our fires? 
Or is spring most fair to you — 
Come, good Myrson, tell me true!" 

Another answereth: 
"What the gods in wisdom send 
We should question not, my friend; 
Yet, since you entreat of me, 
I will answer reverently: 

Me the summertime displeases, 
For its sun is scorching hot; 
Autumn brings such dire diseases 
That perforce I like it not; 
As for biting winter, oh! 
How I hate its ice and snow! 

"But, thrice welcome, kindly spring, 
With the myriad gifts you bring! 
Not too hot nor yet too cold, 
Graciously your charms unfold — 

Oh, your days are like the dreaming 
Of those nights which love beseems, 

And your nights have all the seeming 
Of those days of golden dreams! 
Heaven smiles down on earth, and then 
Earth smiles up to heaven again!" 



MOTHER AND SPHINX 

(EGYPTIAN FOLK-SONG) 

Grim is the face that looks into the night 

Over the stretch of sands; 
A sullen rock in a sea of white — 
A ghostly shadow in ghostly light, 

Peering and moaning it stands. 
"Oh, is it the king that rides this way — 



412 VARIOUS TRANSLATIONS 

Oh, is it the Icing that rides so free? 
I have looked for the king this many a day, 
But the years that mock me will not say 

Why tarrieth he!" 

"T is not your king that shall ride to-night, 

But a child that is fast asleep; 
And the horse he shall ride is the Dream-horse white- 
Aha, he shall speed through the ghostly light 

Where the ghostly shadows creep! 
"My eyes are dull and my face is sere, 

Yet unto the word he gave I cling, 
For he was a Pharaoh that set me here — 
And, lo! I have waited this many a year 

For him — my king!" 

Oh, past thy face my darling shall ride 

Swift as the burning winds that bear 
The sand clouds over the desert wide — 
Swift to the verdure and palms beside 

The wells off there! 
"And is it the mighty king I shall see 

Come riding into the night f 
Oh, is it the king come back to me — 
Proudly and fiercely rideth he, 

With centuries dight ! " 

I know no king but my dark-eyed dear 

That shall ride the Dream-Horse white; 
But see! he wakes at my bosom here, 
While the Dream-Horse frettingly lingers near 

To speed with my babe to-night! 
And out of the desert darkness peers 

A ghostly, ghastly, shadoivy thing 
Like a spirit come out of the mouldering years, 
And ever that waiting spectre hears 

The coming king ! 



HYMN 413 

HYMN 

(FROM THE GERMAN OF MARTIN LUTHER) 

O heart of mine! lift up thine eyes 
And see who in yon manger lies! 
Of perfect form, of face divine — 
It is the Christ-child, heart of mine! 

O dearest, holiest Christ-child, spread 
Within this heart of mine thy bed; 
Then shall my breast forever be 
A chamber consecrate to thee! 

Beat high to-day, O heart of mine, 
And tell, O lips, what joys are thine; 
For with your help shall I prolong 
Old Bethlehem's sweetest cradle-song. 

Glory to God, whom this dear Child 
Hath by His coming reconciled, 
And whose redeeming love again 
Brings peace on earth, good will to men! 



TWO IDYLS FROM BION THE SMYRXEAN 



Once a fowler, young and artless, 
To the quiet greenwood came; 

Full of skill was he and heartless 
In pursuit of feathered game. 

And betimes he chanced to see 

Eros perching in a tree. 



414 VARIOUS TRANSLATIONS 

"What strange bird is that, I wonder?" 
Thought the youth, and spread his snare; 

Eros, chuckling at the blunder, 
Gayly scampered here and there. 

Do his best, the simple clod 

Could not snare the agile god! 

Blubbering, to his aged master 
Went the fowler in dismay, 

And confided his disaster 

With that curious bird that day; 

"Master, hast thou ever heard 

Of so ill-disposed a bird?" 

"Heard of him? Aha, most truly!" 
Quoth the master with a smile; 

"And thou, too, shalt know him duly — 
Thou art young, but bide awhile, 

And old Eros will not fly 

From thy presence by and by! 

"For when thou art somewhat older 
That same Eros thou didst see, 

More familiar grown and bolder, 
Shall become acquaint with thee; 

And when Eros comes thy way 

Mark my word, he comes to stay!" 

ii 

Once came Venus to me, bringing 
Eros where my cattle fed — 

"Teach this little boy your singing, 
Gentle herdsman," Venus said. 

I was young — I did not know 
Whom it was that Venus led — 

That was many years ago! 

In a lusty voice but mellow — 
Callow pedant! I began 



A RHINE-LAND DRINKING SONG 415 

To instruct the little fellow 

In the mysteries known to man; 
Sung the noble cithern's praise, 

And the flute of dear old Pan, 
And the lyre that Hermes plays. 

But he paid no heed unto me — 

Nay, that graceless little boy 
Coolly plotted to undo me — 

With his songs of tender joy; 
And my pedantry o'erthrown, 

Eager was I to employ 
His sweet ritual for mine own! 

Ah, these years of ours are fleeting! 

Yet I have not vainly wrought, 
Since to-day I am repeating 

What dear lessons Eros taught; 
Love, and always love, and then — 

Counting all things else for naught — 
Love and always love again! 



A RHINE-LAND DRINKING SONG 

If our own life is the life of a flower 

(And that's what some sages are thinking), 
We should moisten the bud with a health-giving flood 
And 't will bloom all the sweeter — 
Yes, life 's the completer 
For drinking, 

and drinking, 

and drinking. 

If it be that our life is a journey 

(As many wise folk are opining), 
We should sprinkle the way with the rain while we may; 



416 VARIOUS TRANSLATIONS 

Though dusty and dreary, 
'T is made cool and cheery 
With wining, 

and wining, 

and wining. 

If this life that we live be a dreaming 

(As pessimist people are thinking), 
To induce pleasant dreams there is nothing, meseems, 
Like this sweet prescription, 
That baffles description — 
This drinking, 

and drinking, 

and drinking. 



HUGO'S "POOL IN THE FOREST" 

How calm, how beauteous and how cool — 

How like a sister to the skies, 
Appears the broad, transparent pool 

That in this quiet forest lies. 
The sunshine ripples on its face, 

And from the world around, above, 
It hath caught down the nameless grace 

Of such reflections as we love. 

But deep below its surface crawl 

The reptile horrors of the night — 
The dragons, lizards, serpents — all 

The hideous brood that hate the light; 
Through poison fern and slimy weed 

And under ragged, jagged stones 
They scuttle, or, in ghoulish greed, 

They lap a dead man's bleaching bones. 

And as, O pool, thou dost cajole 
With seemings that beguile us well, 

So doeth many a human soul 

That teemeth with the lusts of hell. 



Hugo's "child at play" 417 



HUGO'S "CHILD AT PLAY" 

A child was singing at his play — 
I heard the song, and paused to hear; 

His mother moaning, groaning lay, 
And, lo! a spectre stood anear! 

The child shook sunlight from his hair, 
And carolled gayly all day long — 

Ay, with that spectre gloating there, 
The innocent made mirth and song! 

How like to harvest fruit wert thou, 
O sorrow, in that dismal room — 

God ladeth not the tender bough 
Save with the joy of bud and bloom! 



LOVE SONG— HEINE 

Many a beauteous flower doth spring 
From the tears that flood my eyes, 

And the nightingale doth sing 
In the burthen of my sighs. 

If, O child, thou lovest me, 

Take these flowerets fair and frail, 

And my soul shall waft to thee 
Love songs of the nightingale. 



TO CINNA 

Cinna, the great Venusian, told 
In songs that will not die 

How in Augustan days of old 
Your love did glorify 



418 VARIOUS TRANSLATIONS 

His life, and all his being seemed 
Thrilled by that rare incense 

Till, grudging him the dreams he dreamed, 
The gods did call you hence. 

Cinna, I 've looked into your eyes, 

And held your hands in mine, 
And seen your cheeks in sweet surprise 

Blush red as Massic wine; 
Now let the songs in Cinna's praise 

Be chanted once again, 
For, oh! alone I walk the ways 

We walked together then! 

Perhaps upon some star to-night, 

So far away in space 
I cannot see that beacon light 

Nor feel its soothing grace — 
Perhaps from that far-distant sphere 

Her quickened vision seeks 
For this poor heart of mine that here 

To its lost Cinna speaks. 

Then search this heart, beloved eyes, 

And find it still as true 
As when in all my boyhood skies 

My guiding stars were you! 
Cinna, you know the mystery 

That is denied to men — 
Mine is the lot to feel that we 

Shall elsewhere love again! 



DER MANN IM KELLER 

How cool and fair this cellar where 
My throne a dusky cask is; 

To do no thing but just to sing 

And drown the time my task is. 



"trot, my good steed, trot!" 419 

The cooper he 's 

Resolved to please, 
And, answering to my winking, 

He fills me up 

Cup after cup 
For drinking, drinking, drinking. 

Begrudge me not 

This cosey spot 
In which I am reclining — 

Why, who would burst 

With envious thirst, 
When he can live by wining? 
A roseate hue seems to imbue 

The world on which I 'm blinking; 
My fellow-men — I love them when 
I 'm drinking, drinking, drinking. 

And yet I think, the more I drink, 

It 's more and more I pine for — 
Oh, such as I (forever dry) 

God made this land of Rhine for 

And there is bliss 

In knowing this, 
As to the floor I 'm sinking: 

I 've wronged no man 

And never can 
W T hile drinking, drinking, drinking. 



'TROT, MY GOOD STEED, TROT!" 

Where my true love abideth 
I make my way to-night; 

Lo! waiting, she 

Espieth me, 
And calleth in delight: 



420 VARIOUS TRANSLATIONS 

"I see his steed anear 
Come trotting with my dear, — 
Oh, idle not, good steed, but trot, 
Trot thou my lover here!" 

Aloose I cast the bridle, 
And ply the whip and spur; 
And gayly I 
Speed this reply, 
While faring on to her: 
"Oh, true love, fear thou not! 
I seek our trysting spot; 
And double feed be yours, my steed, 
If you more swiftly trot." 

I vault from out the saddle, 
And make my good steed fast; 
Then to my breast 
My love is pressed, — 
At last, true heart, at last! 
The garden drowsing lies, 
The stars fold down their eyes, — 
In this dear spot, my steed, neigh not, 
Nor stamp in restless wise! 

O passing sweet communion 

Of young hearts, warm and true! 
To thee belongs 
The old, old songs 
Love finds forever new. 
We sing those songs, and then 
Cometh the moment when 
It's "Good steed, trot from this dear spot,- 
Trot, trot me home again!" 



bion's song OF EROS 421 



BION'S SONG OF EROS 

Eros is the god of love; 
He and I are hand-in-glove. 
All the gentle, gracious Muses 
Follow Eros where he leads, 
And they bless the bard who chooses 
To proclaim love's famous deeds; 
Him they serve in rapturous glee, — 
That is why they 're good to me. 

Sometimes I have gone astray 
From love's sunny, flowery way: 
How I floundered, how I stuttered! 

And, deprived of ways and means, 
What egregious rot I uttered, — 
Such as suits the magazines! 
I was rescued only when 
Eros called me back again. 

Gods forefend that I should shun 
That benignant Mother's son! 
Why, the poet who refuses 

To emblazon love's delights 
Gets the mitten from the Muses, — 
Then what balderdash he writes! 
I love Love; which being; so, 
See how smooth my verses flow! 

Gentle Eros, lead the way, — 
I will follow while I may: 

Be thy path by hill or hollow, 

I will follow fast and free; 
And when I 'm too old to follow, 
I will sit and sing of thee, — 
Potent still in intellect, 
Sit, and sing, and retrospect. 



422 VARIOUS TRANSLATIONS 



FIDUCIT 



Three comrades on the German Rhine, 

Defying care and weather, 
Together quaffed the mellow wine, 

And sung their songs together. 
What recked they of the griefs of life, 

With wine and song to cheer them? 
Though elsewhere trouble might be rife, 

It would not come anear them. 

Anon one comrade passed away, 

And presently another, 
And yet unto the tryst each day 

Repaired the lonely brother; 
And still, as gayly as of old, 

That third one, hero-hearted, 
Filled to the brim each cup of gold, 

And called to the departed, — 

"O comrades mine! I see ye not, 

Nor hear your kindly greeting, 
Yet in this old, familiar spot 

Be still our loving meeting! 
Here have I filled each bouting-cup 

With juices red and cheery; 
I pray ye drink the potion \ip, 

And as of old make merry!" 

And once before his tear-dimmed eyes, 

All in the haunted gloaming, 
He saw two ghostly figures rise, 

And quaff the beakers foaming; 
He heard two spirit voices call, 

"Fiducit, jovial brother!" 
And so forever from that hall 

Went they with one another. 



THE LOST CUPID OF MOSCHUS 423 



THE LOST CUPID OF MOSCHUS 

"Cupid!" Venus went a-crying; 

"Cupid, whither dost thou stray? 
Tell me, people, hither hieing, 

Have you seen my runaway? 

Speak, — my kiss shall be your pay! 
Yes, and sweets more gratifying, 

If you bring him back to-day. 

"Cupid," Venus went a-calling, 

"Is a rosy little youth, 
But his beauty is enthralling. 

He will speak you fair, in sooth, 

Wheedle you with glib untruth, — 
Honey-like his words: but galling 

Are his deeds, and full of ruth! 

"Cupid's hair is curling yellow, 

And he hath a saucy face; 
With his chubby hands the fellow 

Shooteth into farthest space, 

Heedless of all time and place; 
King and squire and punchinello 

He delighteth to abase! 

"Nude and winged the prankish blade is, 
And he speedeth everywhere, 

Vexing gentlemen and ladies, 

Callow youths and damsels fair 
Whom he catcheth unaware; — 

Venturing even into Hades, 

He hath sown his torments there! 



"For that bow, that bow and quiver, — 

Oh, they are a cruel twain! 
Thinking of them makes me shiver. 



424 VARIOUS TRANSLATIONS 

Oft, with all his might and main, 
Cupid sends those darts profane 
Whizzing through my heart and liver, 
Setting fire to every vein! 

"And the torch he carries blazing, — 

Truly 't is a tiny one; 
Yet, that tiny torch upraising, 

Cupid scarifies the sun! 

Ah, good people, there is none 
Knows what mischief most amazing 

Cupid's evil torch hath done! 

"Show no mercy when you find him! 

Spite of every specious plea 
And of all his whimpering, bind him! 

Full of flatteries is he; 

Armed with treachery, cap-a-pie, 
He '11 play 'possum; never mind'him, — 

March him straightway back to me! 

"Bow and arrows and sweet kisses 

He will offer you, no doubt; 
But beware those proffered blisses, — 

They are venomous throughout! 

Seize and bind him fast about; 
Mind you,— most important this is: 

Bind him, bring him, but — watch out! ! 



AN ECLOGUE FROM VIRGIL 425 



AN ECLOGUE FROM VIRGIL 

[The exile Melibceus finds Tityrus in possession of his own farm, re- 
stored to him by the Emperor Augustus, and a conversation ensues. The 
poem is in praise of Augustus, peace, and pastoral life.] 

MELIBCEUS 

Tityrus, all in the shade of the wide-spreading beech-tree reclining, 
Sweet is that music you've made on your pipe that is oaten and 
slender; 
Exiles from home, you beguile our hearts from their hopeless re- 
pining, 
As you sing Amaryllis the while in pastorals tuneful and tender. 

tityrus 

A god — yes, a god, I declare — vouchsafes me these pleasant con- 
ditions, 
And often I gayly repair with a tender white lamb to his altar; 
He gives me the leisure to play my greatly admired compositions, 
While my heifers go browsing all day, unhampered of bell and 
of halter. 

MELIBCEUS 

I do not begrudge you repose; I simply admit I 'm confounded 

To find you unscathed of the woes of pillage and tumult and 

battle. 

To exile and hardship devote, and by merciless enemies hounded, 

I drag at this wretched old goat and coax on my famishing 

cattle. 

Oh, often the omens presaged the horrors which now overwhelm 

me — 
But, come, if not elsewise engaged, who is this good deity, tell me! 

TITYRUS 

(reminiseently) 

The city — the city called Rome, with my head full of herding and 
tillage, 
I used to compare with my home, these pastures w T herein you 
now wander; 



426 VARIOUS TRANSLATIONS 

But I didn't take long to find out that the city surpasses the village 
As the cypress surpasses the sprout that thrives in the thicket 
out yonder. 

MELIBOEUS 

Tell me, good gossip, I pray, what led you to visit the city? 

TITYRUS 

Liberty! which on a day regarded my lot with compassion; 
My age and distresses, forsooth, compelled that proud mistress 
to pity, 
That had snubbed the attentions of youth in most reprehensible 
fashion. 
Oh, happy, thrice happy, the day when the cold Galatea forsook me; 
And equally happy, I say, the hour when that other girl took me! 

MELIBCEUS 

(slyly, as if addressing the damsel) 

So now, Amaryllis, the truth of your ill-disguised grief I discover! 
You pined for a favorite youth with citified damsels hobnobbing; 
And soon your surroundings partook of your grief for your rec- 
usant lover, — 
The pine-trees, the copse, and the brook, for Tityrus ever went 
sobbing. 

TITYRUS 

Melibceus, what else could I do? Fate doled me no morsel of 
pity; 
My toil was all vain the year through, no matter how earnest or 
clever, 
Till, at last, came that god among men, that king from that won- 
derful city, 
And quoth: "Take your homesteads again; they are yours 
and your assigns' forever!" 

MELIBCEUS 

Happy, oh, happy old man! rich in what's better than money, — 
Rich in contentment, you can gather sweet peace by mere lis- 
tening; 



AN ECLOGUE FROM VIRGIL 427 

Bees with soft murmurings go hither and thither for honey, 

Cattle all gratefully low in pastures where fountains are glisten- 
ing— 
Hark! in the shade of that rock the pruner with singing rejoices, — 
The dove in the elm and the flock of wood-pigeons hoarsely 
repining, 
The plash of the sacred cascade, — ah, restful, indeed, are these 
voices, 
Tityrus, all in the shade of your wide-spreading beech-tree re- 
clining ! 

TITYRUS 

And he who insures this to me — oh, craven I were not to love 
him! 
Nay, rather the fish of the sea shall vacate the water they swim 
in, 
The stag quit his bountiful grove to graze in the ether above 
him, 
While folk antipodean rove along with their children and women ! 

MELIBCEUS 

(.suddenly recalling his own misery) 

But we who are exiled must go; and whither — ah, whither — God 
knoweth ! 
Some into those regions of snow or of desert where Death reign- 
eth only; 
Some off to the country of Crete, where rapid Oaxes down floweth; 
And desperate others retreat to Britain, the bleak isle and lonely. 
Dear land of my birth! shall I see the horde of invaders oppress 
thee? 
Shall the wealth that outspringeth from thee by the hand of the 
alien be squandered? 
Dear cottage wherein I was born! shall another in conquest pos- 
sess thee, 
Another demolish in scorn the fields and the groves where I 've 
wandered ? 
My flock! nevermore shall you graze on that furze-covered hill- 
side above me; 
Gone, gone are the halcyon days when my reed piped defiance 
to sorrow! 



428 VARIOUS TRANSLATIONS 

Nevermore in the vine-covered grot shall I sing of the loved ones 
that love me, — 
Let yesterday's peace be forgot in dread of the stormy to-mor- 
row! 

TITYRUS 

But rest you this night with me here; my bed, — we will share it 
together, 
As soon as you 've tasted my cheer, my apples and chestnuts 
and cheeses; 
The evening already is nigh, — the shadows creep over the heather, 
And the smoke is rocked up to the sky to the lullaby song of the 
breezes. 



CATULLUS TO LESBIA 

Come, my Lesbia, no repining; 

Let us love while yet we may! 
Suns go on forever shining; 

But when we have had our day, 
Sleep perpetual shall o'ertake us, 
And no morrow's dawn awake us. 

Come, in yonder nook reclining, 
' Where the honeysuckle climbs, 
Let us mock at Fate's designing, 
Let us kiss a thousand times! 
And if they shall prove too few, dear, 
When they 're kissed we '11 start anew, dear! 

And should any chance to see us, 
Goodness! how they '11 agonize! 

How they '11 wish that they could be us, 
Kissing in such liberal wise! 

Never mind their envious whining; 

Come, my Lesbia, no repining! 



korner's battle prayer 429 



KORNER'S BATTLE PRAYER 

Father, I cry to Thee! 
Round me the billows of battle are pouring, 
Round me the thunders of battle are roaring; 

Father on high, hear Thou my cry, — ■ 

Father, oh, lead Thou me! 

Father, oh, lead Thou me! 
Lead me, o'er Death and its terrors victorious, — 
See, I acknowledge Thy will as all-glorious; 

Point thou the way, lead where it may, — 

God, I acknowledge Thee! 

God, I acknowledge Thee! 
As when the dead leaves of autumn whirl round me 
So, when the horrors of war would confound me, 

Laugh I at fear, knowing Thee near, — 

Father, oh, bless Thou me! 

Father, oh, bless Thou me! 
Living or dying, waking or sleeping, 
Such as I am, I commit to Thy keeping: 

Frail though I be, Lord, bless Thou me! 

Father, I worship Thee! 

Father, I worship Thee! 
Not for the love of the riches that perish, 
But for the freedom and justice we cherish, 

Stand we or fall, blessing Thee, all — 

God, I submit to Thee! 

God, I submit to Thee! 
Yea, though the terrors of Death pass before me, 
Yea, with the darkness of Death stealing o'er me, 

Lord, unto Thee bend I the knee, — 

Father, I cry to Thee! 



430 VARIOUS TRANSLATIONS 



BERANGER'S "MA VOCATION" 

Misery is my lot, 

Poverty and pain; 
111 was I begot, 

111 must I remain; 
Yet the wretched days 

One sweet comfort bring, 
When God whispering says, 

"Sing, O singer, sing !" 

Chariots rumble by, 

Splashing me with mud; 
Insolence see I 

Fawn to royal blood; 
Solace have I then 

From each galling sting 
In that voice again, — 

"Sing, O singer, sing I" 

Cowardly at heart, 

I am forced to play 
A degraded part 

For its paltry pay; 
Freedom is a prize 

For no starving thing; 
Yet that small voice cries, 

"Sing, O singer, sing I" 

I was young, but now, 

When I 'm old and gray, 
Love — I know not how 

Or why — hath sped away; 
Still, in winter days 

As in hours of spring, 
Still a whisper says, 

"Sing, O singer, sing I" 



Hugo's "flower to butterfly" 431 

Ah, too well I know 

Song 's my only friend ! 
Patiently I '11 go 

Singing to the end; 
Comrades, to your wine ! 

Let your glasses ring ! 
Lo, that voice divine 

Whispers, "Sing, oh, sing !" 



HUGO'S "FLOWER TO BUTTERFLY" 

Sweet, bide with me and let my love 

Be an enduring tether; 
Oh, wanton not from spot to spot, 

But let us dwell together. 

You 've come each morn to sip the sweets 
With which you found me dripping, 

Yet never knew it was not dew 
But tears that you were sipping. 

You gambol over honey meads 
Where siren bees are humming; 

But mine the fate to watch and wait 
For my beloved's coming. 

The sunshine that delights you now 
Shall fade to darkness gloomy; 
You should not fear if, biding here, 
You nestled closer to me. 

So rest you, love, and be my love, 
That my enraptured blooming 

May fill your sight with tender light, 
Your wings with sweet perfuming. 



432 VARIOUS TRANSLATIONS 

Or, if you will not bide with me 

Upon this quiet heather, 
Oh, give me wing, thou beauteous thing, 

That we may soar together. 



BERANGER'S "MY LAST SONG PERHAPS 

[JANUARY, 1814] 

When, to despoil my native France, 

With flaming torch and cruel sword 
And boisterous drums her foeman comes, 

I curse him and his vandal horde ! 
Yet, what avail accrues to her, 

If we assume the garb of woe ? 
Let's merry be, — in laughter we 

May rescue somewhat from the foe ! 

Ah, many a brave man trembles now. 

I (coward!) show no sign of fear; 
When Bacchus sends his blessing, friends, 

I drown my panic in his cheer. 
Come, gather round my humble board, 

And let the sparkling wassail flow, — 
Chuckling to think, the while you drink, 

"This much we rescue from the foe !" 

My creditors beset me so 

And so environed my abode, 
That I agreed, despite my need, 

To settle up the debts I owed; 
When suddenly there came the news 

Of this invasion, as you know; 
I '11 pay no score; pray, lend me more, — 

I — I will keep it from the foe ! 



uhland's "three cavaliers" 433 

Now here 's my mistress, — pretty dear! — 

Feigns terror at this martial noise, 
And yet, methinks, the artful minx 

Would like to meet those soldier boys ! 
I tell her that they're coarse and rude, 

Yet feel she don't believe 'em so, — 
Well, never mind; so she be kind, 

That much I rescue from the foe ! 

If, brothers, hope shall have in store 

For us and ours no friendly glance, 
Let's rather die than raise a cry 

Of welcome to the foes of France ! 
But, like the swan that dying sings, 

Let us, O Frenchmen, singing go, — 
Then shall our cheer, when death is near, 

Be so much rescued from the foe ! 



UHLAND'S "THREE CAVALIERS" 

There were three cavaliers that went over the Rhine, 
And gayly they called to the hostess for wine. 
"And where is thy daughter? We would she were here, — 
Go fetch us that maiden to gladden our cheer I" 

"I '11 fetch thee thy goblets full foaming," she said, 
"But in yon darkened chamber the maiden lies dead." 
And lo! as they stood in the doorway, the white 
Of a shroud and a dead shrunken face met their sight. 

Then the first cavalier breathed a pitiful sigh, 
And the throb of his heart seemed to melt in his eye, 
And he cried, "Hadst thou lived, O my pretty white rose, 
I ween I had loved thee and wed thee — who knows?" 

The next cavalier drew aside a small space, 
And stood to the w T all with his hands to his face; 
And this was the heart-cry that came w T ith his tears: 
"I loved her, I loved her these many long years !" 



434 VARIOUS TRANSLATIONS 

But the third cavalier kneeled him down in that place, 
And, as it were holy, he kissed that dead face: 
"I loved thee long years, and I love thee to-day, 
And I '11 love thee, dear maiden, forever and aye!" 



HEINE'S "WIDOW OR DAUGHTER?" 

Shall I woo the one or other? 

Both attract me — more 's the pity! 
Pretty is the widowed mother, 

And the daughter, too, is pretty. 

When I see that maiden shrinking, 
By the gods I swear I '11 get 'er! 

But anon I fall to thinking 

That the mother '11 suit me better! 

So, like any idiot ass 

Hungry for the fragrant fodder, 
Placed between two bales of grass, 

Lo, I doubt, delay, and dodder! 



BERANGER'S "BROKEN FIDDLE" 



There, there, poor dog, my faithful friend, 
Pay you no heed unto my sorrow: 

But feast to-day while yet you may, — 

Who knows but we shall starve to-morrow! 

ii 

"Give us a tune," the foemen cried, 
In one of their profane caprices; 

I bade them "No" — they frowned, and, lo! 
They dashed this innocent in pieces! 



435 



in 



This fiddle was the village pride — 
The mirth of every fete enhancing; 

Its wizard art set every heart 
As well as every foot to dancing. 



IV 



How well the bridegroom knew its voice, 
As from its strings its song went gushing! 

Nor long delayed the promised maid 
Equipped for bridal, coy and blushing. 



Why, it discoursed so merrily, 
It quickly banished all dejection; 

And yet, when pressed, our priest confessed 
I played with pious circumspection. 



VI 

And though, in patriotic song, 

It was our guide, compatriot, teacher, 
I never thought the foe had wrought 

His fury on the helpless creature! 



VII 

But there, poor dog, my faithful friend, 
Pay you no heed unto my sorrow; 

I prithee take this paltry cake, — 

Who knows but we shall starve to-morrow! 



VIII 

Ah, who shall lead the Sunday choir 
As this old fiddle used to do it ? 

Can vintage come, with this voice dumb 
That used to bid a welcome to it? 



436 VARIOUS TRANSLATIONS 



IX 



It soothed the weary hours of toil, 
It brought forgetfulness to debtors; 

Time and again from wretched men 
It struck oppression's galling fetters. 



No man could hear its voice, and hate; 

It stayed the teardrop at its portal; 
With that dear thing I was a king 

As never yet was monarch mortal! 

XI 

Now has the foe — the vandal foe — 

Struck from my hands their pride and glory; 
There let it lie! In vengeance, I 

Shall wield another weapon, gory! 

XII 

And if, O countrymen, I fall, 

Beside our grave let this be spoken 

"No foe of France shall ever dance 
Above the heart and fiddle, broken!" 

XIII 

So come, poor dog, my faithful friend, 
I prithee do not heed my sorrow, 

But feast to-day while yet you may, 
For we are like to starve to-morrow. 



SHARPS AND FLATS 



THE OFFICIAL EXPLANATION 

One night aside the fire at hum, 

Ez I wuz sittin' nappin', 
Deown frum the lower hall there come 

The seound of some one rappin'. 
The son uv old Nat Hawthorne he — 

Julian, I think his name wuz — 
Uv course he feound a friend in me, 

Not knowin' what his game wuz. 

An' ez we visited a spell, 

Our talk ranged wide an' wider, 
An' if we struck dry subjects — well, 

We washed 'em deown with cider. 
Neow, with that cider coursin' thru 

My system an' a-playin' 
Upon my tongue, I hardly knew 

Just what I was a-sayin'. 

I kin remember that I spun 

A hifalutin story 
Abeout the Prince uv Wales, an' one 

Abeout old Queen Victory. 
But, sakes alive! I never dreamed 

The cuss would get it printed — 
(By that old gal I 'm much esteemed, 

Ez she hez often hinted.) 

Oh, if I had that critter neow, 
You bet your boots I 'd Tarn him 

In mighty lively fashion heow 
To walk the chalk, gol darn him! 
437 



438 SHARPS AND FLATS 

Meanwhile between his folks an' mine 
The breach grows wide an' wider, 

An', by the way, it 's my design 
To give up drinkin' cider. 

November 1, 1886. 



THE POET'S RETURN 

A poet, crazed by Mammon, hung 

His harp upon the willows, and 
Forgot the songs which he had sung, 

Sweeping that harp with master hand,, 
Long wailed the Muse with much ado, 

The votary which Mammon stole, 
Till Mammon pitying her withdrew 

The spell that bound the poet's soul. 

The poet then with master hand 

Took down the old familiar lyre 
And sang unto a listening land 

His song aflame with heav'nly fire. 
Sing on, O poet, while ye may, 

As sweetly as in years of old, 
For thy sweet songs shall live for aye, 

A grander heritance than gold! 
August 17, 1883. 



A SHOSHONE LEGEND 

The brave Shoshones much revere 

Our presidential Arthur, 
And they proclaim him, far and near 

The mighty pale-face father. 



A SHOSHONE LEGEND 439 

This reverence, 't is said, is due 

Unto a little caper, 
Which, whether false or whether true, 
. Hath ne'er before seen paper. 

Down in the Yellowstone, one eve, 

Quoth Vest, the statesman-joker: 
" Since time hangs heavy, I believe 

I '11 start a game of poker." 
He called the bold Shoshones round 

And filled their pipes with Gravely, 
And, seated on the dewy ground, 

They all chipped in right bravely. 

And lo! the President did choose 

To lend approval hearty; 
So, purchasing a stack of blues, 

He sat in with the party. 
Out spake the brave Po-Dunk-a-Wee, 

Rending his purse asunder: 
"Big Injun bet heap dollar he 

Beat pale-face all to thunder!" 

Whereat the pale-face chief sublime 

Did manifest a wincing — 
And yet allowed it was no time 

For presidential mincing. 
So none dropped out, but all came in, 

Till groaned the pot with stuffing — 
And, consequently, rose the din 

Of multifarious bluffing. 

And when the show-down word was spoke — 

Alas, its dreadful uses! 
The brave Po-Dunk-a-Wee went broke 

On sixes full on deuces; 
"Two pair," the brave Tim-Tom-Kee moaned 

Amid regretful blushes, 
While other rash Shoshones groaned 

O'er various bobtail flushes. 



440 SHARPS AND FLATS 

And then a miracle ensued 

Which blanched the copper faces- 

Our Arthur, with rare fortitude, 
Showed down five awful aces. 

August 22, 1883. 



A ZEPHYR FROM ZULULAND 

From Onathlamba in the west, 

Where rise the walls of Quangar, 
And where the brave Bapedis rest, 

Is heard a joyous clangor: 
From Unyanyembe's pagan towers — 

The Umtamtuna River — 
Where dark Kabompo's noisome bowers 

Disturb the Kaffir's liver; 
Where bloom the nutmeg and the rose 

And thrives the tapir greasy, 
And where the Unzimkulu flows 

Into the fair Zambesi; 
Where dwells the cruel assagai 

Among the fierce Potgeiters, 
And Sekukunis live and die 

As Amaswazai fighters; 
And from the huts of Mozambique 

Upon the northern shore, 
Unto old Umoolosi peak, 

And fragrant Delagoa — 
Around and round the tidings go, 

Inspiring vast thanksgiving 
That all in spite of dastard foe 

Their monarch still is living. 
Hail, monarch! Cetewayo, hail! — 

Great England's pagan hobby — 
And bless thy fate that foes should fail 

To slay a nibs so nobby! 
August 22, 1883. 



THE FRENCH MUST GO 441 



THE FRENCH MUST GO 

Unto his valiant aide-de-camp 

Remarked the brave Bouet: 
"To-morrow we will move along 

To battle, s'il vous plait. 
Hard by the walls of Hue, we 

Our pagan foe shall meet, 
And then and there, mon cher ami, 

We '11 warm him tout de suite." 



Next morn, as brave Wun Lung with zest 

Partook his matin rice, 
And stored away beneath his vest 

A pie composed of mice, 
Into his presence rushed Gin Sing, 

And cried in sore dismay: 
"Oh, save thyself, most potent king — 

The Flenchmen come this way!" 

Wun Lung looked daggers, and replied: 

"If that 's the Flenchman's gamee, 
We '11 meet him on the plain outside, 

And lick him allee samee. 
Close up the laundries, whet your swords; 

And, with your spears in hand, 
Call in the servile cooly hordes 

And let the junks be manned." 

When this commotion brave Bouet 

Discovered from afar — 
"I fear," he muttered in dismay, 

"I 've made un grand faux pas. 
I do not understand," quoth he, 

"This hurrying to and fro; 
But I suspect, from what I see 

And hear, je suis de trop ! " 



442 SHARPS AND FLATS 

The hostile forces soon imbrued 

With murd'rous shock and blow, 
And in the struggle that ensued 

The Frenchman had to go. 
The fierce Wun Lung, amid the strife, 

Beheld brave Bouet near, 
And took his horse-du-combat's life 

With battle-axe and spear. 

And when his horse-du-combat fell 

All lifeless at his feet, 
Brave Bouet, with a sickening yell, 

Commanded a retreat. 
Wun Lung now lolls in his abode 

From morn till dewy eve, 
And eats his rat-pie a la mode — 

And Bouet takes "French leave.*' 
August 22, 1883 



A BATTLE IN YELLOWSTONE PARK 

The sun had slipped down 

The blue slant of the west; 
The pale, queenly moon 

Sat upon the night's crest, 
With her face from the world 

Turned in shame half away, 
As she fondly pursued 

Her loved king of the day. 

The Yellowstone camp 

In the valley below, 
With its tents like tombstones 

Set out in a row, 
Was quaking with fear; 

For the word had been brought 
That a train was en route 

With bold kidnappers fraught. 



A BATTLE IN YELLOWSTONE PARK 443 

The President lay 

In his well-guarded tent; 
The general hither 

And thither had sent 
The men of his staff 

And the men of his troop; 
The visiting statesmen 

Were crouched in a group. 

On the soft summer breeze 

Came a sharp, startling sound. 
For a moment all stood 

As in fear's fetters bound. 
"What was that?" whispered Robert. 

SaidRufus: "Fly! Hide! 
'T is the savage war-whoop 

Of the robber's red guide." 

"Man the outposts! Look sharp!" 

The brave general said. 
"Guard the President well." 

And with field-glass he read 
The circling horizon, 

To south and to east, 
Till his eye fell, at last, 

On the skulking red beast. 

Every eye in the camp 

Strained, the pale night to pierce; 
Every hand clutched a gun, 

As by fear rendered fierce; 
Every heart pounded hard 

At the ribs of its cage 
As forms were spied, veiled 

By a thicket of sage. 

Flash! each gun laughed a flame 

Like a demon at sport. 
Crash! the still night was rent 

By the awful report, 



444 SHARPS AND FLATS 

And the craggy old mountains 
Re-echoed "Ha, ha!" 

Till the sounds seemed to blend 
In a giant guffaw. 

Hours and hours the camp watched 

Till the bright threads of dawn 
Wove a shining gold veil 

For the night to put on. 
Then, there in the sage-brush, 

In bullet-torn coats, 
Lay the earthly remains 

Of a pair of coyotes. 
August 28, 1883. 



HIS LORDSHIP, THE CHIEF JUSTICE 

Whereas, it is alleged, to wit: 

There cometh from afar 
A certain party in whose cause 

Herewith these presents are; 
One Coleridge is said party's name, 

A lord of high degree, 
Well known unto this court and fame — 

A judge, so called, is he. 

As parties of the second part, 

We, the appellants, pray 
That sundry courtesies be shown 

Said judge who comes this way; 
And, furthermore, appellants crave 

Said judge be dined and feted 
As would become said judge and court 

Hereinbefore narrated; 
And that said divers compliments 

Be also well intentioned, 
As to delight said judge, so called, 

Above and afore mentioned. 
August 29, 1883. 



A HINT FOK 1884 445 



A HINT FOR 1884 

The sage of Grey stone, so they say, 

Has two imported steeds; 
The one is black, the other bay, 

And both of noble breeds. 
Before he bought these chargers rare — 

Of stylish blood and tone — 
He used to drive another pair, 

A humble gray and roan. 

When Tilden hankers after style 

On boulevard or street, 
A coachman reins the chargers, 

While he lolls on cushioned seat. 
But when he 's out for holiday 

To scour the hedge and thicket, 
Alone he drives the roan and gray — 

The good old-fashioned ticket. 
August 31, 1883. 



THE INDIAN AND THE TROUT 

The morning sun in splendor shone 
On the mellow park of the Yellowstone. 
The President at the break of day 
Had packed his duds and moved away. 
A brave Shoshone chief came out 
With his willow pole to fish for trout. 
It was half-past six when he cast his line, 
And he kept on fishing till half-past nine; 
And then he baited his hook anew 
And patiently fished until half-past two — 
The meanwhile swearing a powerful sight 
For fishing all day with nary a bite. 



446 SHARPS AND FLATS 

And he swore and fished, and fished and swore 
Till his Elgin watch tolled half-past four; 
When a big, fat trout came swimming by 
And winked at the chief with his cold, sad eye. 

"And do you reckon, you pagan soul, 

You can catch us trout'with a willow pole? 

The President taught us manners while 

He fished for us in the latest style. 

You 've no idea how proud we feel 

To be jerked ashore with a Frankfort reel!" 

The red man gathered his dinner-pail 
And started home by the shortest trail, 
And he told his faithful squaw he guess'd 
They 'd better move still farther west, 
Where presidents didn't come fooling about, 
Turning the heads of the giddy trout. 
September 5, 1883. 



A PLAY ON WORDS 

(TO BE READ ALOUD RAPIDLY) 

Assert ten Barren love day made 

Dan woo'd her hart buy nigh tan day; 
Butt wen knee begged she 'd marry hymn, 

The crewel bell may dancer neigh. 
Lo atter fee tin vein he side 

Ant holder office offal pane — 
A lasses mown touched knot terse sole — 

His grown was sever awl Lynn vane. 

"Owe, beam my bride, my deer, rye prey, 
And here mice size beef ore rye dye; 

Oak caste mean knot tin scorn neigh way — 
Yew are the apple love me nigh!" 



HOW FLAHERTY KEPT THE BRIDGE 447 

She herd Dan new we truly spoke. 

Key was of noble berth, and bread 
Tool lofty mean and hie renown, 

The air too grate testates, 't was head. 

"Ewe wood due bettor, sir," she bald, 

"Took court sum mother girl, lie. wean — 
Ewer knot mice stile, lisle never share 

The thrown domestic azure quean!" 
" 'T is dun, no farebutt Scilly won — 

Aisle waiste know father size on the!" 
Oft tooth the nay bring porte tea flue 

And through himself into the see. 
September 12, 1883. 



HOW FLAHERTY KEPT THE BRIDGE 

Out spake Horatius Flaherty, — a Fenian bold was he, — 
"Lo, I will stand at thy right hand and turn the bridge with thee! 
So ring the bell, O' Grady, and clear the railway track — 
Muldoon will heed the summons well and keep the street-cars 
back." 

Forthwith O' Grady rang the bell, and straightway from afar 
There came a rush of humankind and over-loaded car. 
"Back, back! a schooner cometh," the brave O'Grady cried; 
"She cometh from Muskegon, packed down with horn and hide." 

And "Back!" Muldoon demanded and Flaherty declaimed, 
While many a man stopped short his course and muttered, "I '11 

be blamed!" 
And many a horse-car jolted, and many a driver swore, 
As the tother gangway of the bridge swung off from either shore. 
And bold Horatius Flaherty a storm of curses heard, 
But pushing bravely at his key, he answered not a word; 
And round and round he turned the bridge to let the schooner 

through, 



448 SHARPS AND FLATS 

And round and round and round again O' Grady turned it too; 
Till now at last the way is clear, and with a sullen toot 
'Twixt bridge and shore, ten rods or more, the tug and schooner 
shoot. 

"Now swing her round the tother way," the brave O'Grady cried. 
" 'T is well!" Horatius Flaherty in thunder tones replied. 
Muldoon waved high his club in air, his handkerchief waved 

high, 
To see the stanch Muskegon ship go sailing calmly by; 
And as the rafters of the bridge swung round to either shore, 
Vast was the noise of men and boys and street-cars passing o'er. 
And Flaherty quoth proudly, as he mopped his sweaty brow, 
"Well done for you, and here's a chew, O'Grady, for you now." 
September 19, 1883. 



THE THREE-CENT STAMP 

Good-by, old stamp; it 's nasty luck 

That ends our friendship so. 
When others failed, you gamely stuck, 

But now you 've got to go. 
So here 's a flood of honest tears, 

And here 's an honest sigh. 
Good-by, old friend of many years — 

Good-by, old stamp, good-by! 

Your life has been a varied one, 

With curious phases fraught — 
Sometimes a check, sometimes a dun, 

Your daily coming brought; 
Smiles to a waiting lover's face, 

Tears to a mother's eye, 
Or joy or pain to every place — 

Good-by, old stamp, good-by! 



BIG THURSDAY 449 

You bravely toiled, and better men 

Will vouch for what I say; 
Although you have been licked, 't was when 

Your face turned t' other way. 
*T was often in a box you got 

(As you will not deny) 
For going through the mails, I wot — 

Good-by, old stamp, good-by! 

Ah, in your last expiring breath 

The tale of years is heard — 
The sound of voices hushed in death, 

A mother's dying word, 
A maiden's answer, soft and sweet, 

A wife's regretful sigh, 
The patter of a baby's feet — 

Good-by, old stamp, good-by! 

What wonder, then, that at this time 

When you and I must part, 
I should aspire to speak in rhyme 

The promptings of my heart? 
Go, bide with all those mem'ries dear 

That live when others die; 
You' ve nobly served your purpose here — 

Good-by, old stamp, good-by! 
September 24, 1883. 



BIG THURSDAY 

In this week's history of the Fair, 

To-day will be the banner day. 
The commonwealth will all be there 

To view the truly grand display. 
The country folk from miles around 

Will gather in this monstrous hive, 
And will in wondering groups be found 

W T here pigs and cows and squashes thrive. 



450 SHARPS AND FLATS 

The rural bumpkin and his gal 

Will proudly note the Lima bean 
And golden pumpkin from La Salle, 

The sweet potato from Moline, 
The toothsome cheese from Kankakee, 

The turnip bred in Kickapoo; 
And squashes fair and round we '11 see 

From Crete and Big Foot Prairie, too. 

Or, fancying live stock, they will ponder 

On blooded cattle by the drove — 
Sleek Berkshire bullocks from Golconda, 

And Durham swine from Downer's Grove; 
On gentle Southdown mules from Pana, 

On Poland China sheep from Niles, 
On calves from Buda and Urbana, 

And likewise cows in divers styles. 

Unhappy, most unhappy being 

Who thinks to stay away from there — 
Who misses all such sights worth seeing 

At and around our glorious Fair! 
So don, O youth, your paper collar, 

And prink your best, O maiden gay, 
A ticket costs but half a dollar — 

Go join the multitude to-day! 
September 27, 1883. 



THE MYSTERY OF PASADENE 

Come, now, who is this Pasadene 
That such a whirl of praises warrants? 

And is a rose 

Her only clo'es ? 
Oh, fie upon you, Billy Florence! 



A NIGHTMARE 451 

Ah, no; that 's your poetic way 

Of turning loose your rhythmic torrents. 

This Pasadene 

Is not your queen — 
We know you know we know it, Florence! 

So sing your song of women-folks; 

We '11 read without the least abhorrence, 

Because we know 

Through weal and woe 
Your queen is Mrs. Billy Florence! 
January 3, 1887. 



A NIGHTMARE 
(caused by failure to digest a blanket-sheet) 

Did I dream? Was 't a fancy 

Of weird necromancy 
That mingled the living with shades of the dead? 

Was 't a deep meditation, 

Or hallucination 
Provoked by a paper I had but just read? 

Blanket-sheet editor 

Sat in his den, 
With his yardstick and tape-measure, 

Paste-pot and pen, 
When there came to the doorway 

And stood in a row 

The spirits of Shakspere, 

Of Addison, Poe, 
And a multitude more 

Of the same brainy school; 
And one in clown's raiment — 

A poor verbose fool. 



452 SHARPS AND FLATS 

"So you 're looking for places?" 

The editor said. 
Each shade in his turn 

Gave a nod of the head. 
"How much can you write 

In the course of a day?" 
The spirits proceeded 

Their work to display. 

One had written a sonnet 

Of usual length; 
Another a paragraph 

Towering in strength; 
Still another romanced 

In sensational strain — 
Every thought a rare gem 

From a procreant brain. 

Then forth from his bag 

The poor, motley clown brought 
A haymow of words 

With a needle of thought; 
And the editor measured 

Them all with his rule, 
And dismissed every spirit 

Save that of the fool. 
October 3, 1883. 



BACHELOR HALL 

It seems like a dream — that sweet wooing of old- 
Like a legend of fairies on pages of gold — 
Too soon the sweet story of loving was closed, 
Too rudely awakened the soul that reposed; 
I kissed the white lips that lay under the pall, 
And crept back to you, lonely Bachelor Hall. 



HUMAN NATURE 453 

Mine eyes have grown dim and my hair has turned white, 

But my heart beats as warmly and gayly to-night 

As in days that are gone and years that are fled — 

Though I fill up my flagon and drink to the dead; 

For over my senses sweet memories fall, 

And the dead is come back to old Bachelor Hall. 

I see her fair face through a vapor of tears, 

And her sweet voice comes back o'er the desert of years, 

And I hear, oh, so gently, the promises she spoke, 

And a soft, spirit hand soothes the heart that is broke; 

So I fill up the flagon, and drink — that is all — 

To the dead and the dying of Bachelor Hall. 

October 5, 1883. 



HUMAN NATURE 

A beggar-man crept to my side 

One bitter, wintry time; 
"I want to buy a drink," he cried; 

" Please give me, sir, a dime." 
If he had craved this boon forlorn 

To buy his family meat, 
I had passed on in silent scorn, 

And left him in the street. 

I tossed the money in his hand, 
And quoth: "As o'er your wine 

Within the tippling-room you stand 
Drink thou to me and mine." 

He let an earnest "Thank ye" drop- 
Then up the street he sped, 

And rushed into a baker's shop, 
And bought a loaf of bread! 



454 SHARPS AND FLATS 

I know not why it was, and yet, 

So sudden was the blow, 
I felt emotions of regret 

That he had duped me so. 
Yet, had the hungry beggar said 

That he was sore in need 
Of that necessity called " bread," 

What man would pay him heed? 
October 10, 1883. 



A VERY WEARY ACTOR 

Amber clouds on a cobalt sky, 
The hour for work is drawing nigh! 

An all-night journey, an aching head, 
A longing to strike and go to bed! 

Not a friend to greet or a friend to meet, 
A lonely room on a noisy street. 

A silent meal in a crowded room, 
A silent smoke in a cloud of gloom. 

A scene rehearsed, a stammering crew, 
Letters received, and more work to do. 

Business bothers, intrigues, and war; 
The future a blank, the present a bore. 

A cup of strong tea, a smoke, and I 'd better 
Screw up my courage, and seek the theatre. 

Dress for an hour in a cell that is stifling, 

And then play a part with a heart — but I 'm trifling. 

(Attributed to) Richard Mansfield. 

October 25, 1883. 



GETTYSBURG 455 



GETTYSBURG 

You wore the blue and I the gray 

On this historic field; 
And all throughout the dreadful fray 

We felt our muscles steeled 
For deeds which men may never know, 
Nor page of history ever show. 

My father, sir, with soul to dare, 
Throughout the day and night, 

Stood on old Little Round Top there, 
And watched the changeful fight, 

And, with a hoarse, inspiring cry, 

Held up the stars and bars on high. 

At last the flag went down, and then — 
Ah, you can guess the rest — 

I never saw his face again. 
My father's loyal breast 

Is strewn with these sweet flow'rs, I wot, 

That seem to love this sacred spot. 

The smoke of battle 's cleared away, 

And all its hatreds, too; 
And as I clasp your hand to-day, 

O man who wore the blue, 
On yonder hill I seem to see 
My father smiling down on me. 
October 27, 1883. 



HER FAIRY FEET 

"Bring me a tiny mouse's skin," 
The boisterous tanner cried; 

"It must be as a rose-leaf thin 
And scarce three fingers wide." 



456 SHARPS AND FLATS 

He seized the fragile, tiny bit 

Within his brawny hand, 
And cast it in the seething pit, 

And so the skin was tann'd. 

Then came a cobbler to his side. 

With tools that cobblers use, 
And deft they wrought that mouse's hide 

Into a pair of shoes. 

"Tell me," I asked, "O cobbler, tell 
For whom these morceaux be?" 

"A lover bade me build them w T ell 
For his true love," quoth he. 

"Where dwells this maid with fairy feet?" 

In wonderment I cried; 
The old man shifted in his seat — 

"Chicago," he replied. 
\ October 29, 1883. 



THE REMORSEFUL CAKES 

A little boy named Thomas ate 
Hot buckwheat cakes for tea — 

A very rash proceeding, as 
We presently shall see. 

He went to bed at eight o'clock, 

As all good children do, 
But scarce had closed his little eyes, 

When he most restless grew. 

He flopped on this side, then on that, 
Then keeled upon his head, 

And covered all at once each spot 
Of his wee trundle-bed. 



a patriot's triumph 457 

He wrapped one leg around his waist 

And t' other round his ear, 
While mamma wondered what on earth 

Could ail her little dear. 

But sound he slept, and as he slept 

He dreamt an awful dream 
Of being spanked with hickory slabs 

Without the power to scream. 

He dreamt a great big lion came 

And ripped and raved and roared — 
While on his breast two furious bulls 

In mortal combat gored. 

He dreamt he heard the flop of wings 

Within the chimney-flue — 
And down there crawled, to gnaw his ears, 

An awful bugaboo! 

When Thomas rose next morn, his face 

Was pallid as a sheet; 
"I nevermore," he firmly said, 

"Will cakes for supper eat!" 
November 6, 1883. 



A PATRIOT'S TRIUMPH 

George William Curtis met a lad 

As down the street he hied. 
"Pray tell me, boy, if eke you can, 

Where Schurz doth now reside." 
"In sooth I can, my gentle sir," 

The honest lad replied; 
"Proceed due north and soon you '11 come 

To where he doth abide." 



458 SHARPS AND FLATS 

"You speak some words I ken not of," 

George William Curtis cried; 
"Now tell in speech non-sectional 

Where doth my friend reside. 
I know not north — Schurz knows no south; 

Such terms do ill betide. 
The north is south — the south is north — 

The west the east, beside." 

"Good sir, you jest," complained the youth, 

And hung his fuddled head. 
"Nay, foolish boy, I speak the truth," 

George William Curtis said; 
"Lo, from the south the north wind blows 

And eke the rising tide, 
That splashes on our eastern shores, 

Laves all the western side. 

"The snows do fall on southern soil 

And on the prairies wide; 
The cotton on the northern hills 

Is now the Yankee's pride. 
There is no north — there is no south — 

These terms have long since died; 
So tell in reconstructed speech 

Wliere now doth Schurz reside." 

"Good master, turn ye to the west, 

And on the eastern side 
Adown the northern path, due south, 

Two blocks he doth abide." 
George William Curtis missed his way, 

But still it gave him joy 
To know our land had gained that day 

A reconstructed boy. 
November 7, 1883. 



YOURS fraternally" 459 



YOURS FRATERNALLY 



An editor in Kankakee 

Once falling in a burning passion 
With a vexatious rival, he 

Wrote him a letter in this fashion: 
"You are an ass uncouth and rude, 

And will be one eternally." 
Then, in an absent-minded mood, 

He signed it "Yours fraternally." 
November 9, 1883. 



SONG OF THE ALL-WOOL SHIRT 

My father bought an undershirt 

Of bright and flaming red — 
"All wool, I 'm ready to assert, 

Fleece-dyed," the merchant said; 
"Your size is thirty-eight, I think; 

A forty you should get, 
Since all-wool goods are bound to shrink 

A trifle when they 're wet." 

That shirt two weeks my father wore — 

Two washings, that was all; 
From forty down to thirty-four 

It shrank like leaf in fall. 
I wore it then a day or two, 

But when 't was washed again 
My wife said, "Now 't will only do 

For little brother Ben." 

A fortnight Ben squeezed into it; 

At last he said it hurt. 
We put it on our babe — the fit 

Was good as any shirt. 



460 SHARPS AND FLATS 

We ne'er will wash it more while yet 
We see its flickering light, 

For if again that shirt is wet 
'T will vanish from our sight. 

December 6, 1883. 



OF BLESSED MEMORY 

I often wonder mother loves to creep 

Up to the garret where a cupboard stands, 

And sit upon the musty floor and weep, 
Holding a baby's dresses in her hands. 

I often wonder grandma loves to sit 

Alone where hangs a picture on the wall — 

A handsome face across whose features flit 
The phantoms of a love she would recall. 

I wonder, too, that sister, pale and sad, 

Waits at the gate, and, waiting, seems to hear 

The footfalls of the brave, heroic lad 

Who nevermore may woo her waiting there. 

ENVOY 

The little lips in voiceless death are sealed; 

The haughty squire seeks now a lasting sleep; 
The lover's bones bleach on a battle-field — 

And broken-hearted women live to weep. 
December 11, 1883. 



A LEAP-YEAR EPISODE 

Can I forget that winter night 

In eighteen eighty-four, 
When Nellie, charming little sprite, 

Came tapping at the door? 



A LEAP-YEAR EPISODE 461 

"Good evening, miss," I, blushing, said, 

For in my heart I knew — 
And, knowing, hung my pretty head — 

That Nellie came to woo. 

She clasped my big red hand, and fell 

Adown upon her knees, 
And cried: "You know I love you well, 

So be my husband, please!" 
And then she swore she 'd ever bj 

A tender wife and true. 



Ah, what delight it was to me 
That Nellie came to woo! 

She 'd lace my shoes, and darn my hose, 

And mend my shirts, she said; 
And grease my comely Roman nose 

Each night on going to bed; 
She 'd build the fires, and fetch the co.il, 

And split the kindling, too. 
Love's perjuries o'erwhelmed her soul 

When Nellie came to woo. 

And as I, blushing, gave no check 

To her advances rash, 
She twined her arms about my neck, 

And toyed with my mustache; 
And then she pleaded for a kiss, 

While I — what could I do 
But coyly yield me to that bliss 

W 7 hen Nellie came to woo? 

I am engaged, and proudly wear 

A gorgeous diamond ring, 
And I shall wed my lover fair 

Sometime in gentle spring. 
I face my doom without a sigh; 

And so, forsooth, would you, 
If you but loved as fond as I, 

And Nellie came to woo. 
December 22, 18S3. 



462 SHARPS AND FLATS 



THE DEBUTANTE 



Have you got the jellies made, mother? 

Are the sandwiches au faitf 
Are the salads wrought and the wine all bought 

For the splurge on New Year's day? 
You look serene as a regnant queen, 

But there '11 be some hitch, I fear, 
For I 'm to receive this year, mother — 

I 'm to receive this year. 

My dress is such a daisy, mother, 

What wonder if I am vain? 
'T is a white pique, decollete, 

With a princesse skirt, en train. 
That 's why I yearn and impatient burn 

For the splurge that is, oh, so near, 
For I 'm to receive this year, mother — 

I 'm to receive this year. 

Jack says he will come at ten, mother, 

And tarry the rest of the day. 
Why turn up your nose ? You don't suppose 

He 'd dare to stay away ? 
Though Jack is proud and hates a crowd, 

I 'm certain he will be here, 
For I 'm to receive this year, mother — 

I 'm to receive this year. 

So call me at half-past eight, mother — 

Don't let me sleep till nine. 
I 've crimped my hair, and over the chair 

I 've thrown my dresses fine; 
At half-past eight — now don't be late — 

Come early, O mother dear, 
For I 'm to receive this year, mother — 

I 'm to receive this year. 
December 27, 1883. 



THE MODERN MARTYR 463 



THE MODERN MARTYR 

"Only an editor's wife," they say, 
As she rides along in her proud coupe; 
But they all confess that her face is fair, 
That her form is lovely beyond compare, 
That her robes are rich and her jewels rare, 
That her heart is warm and her gold is free; 
Yet "only an editor's wife" is she! 

Do they envy her laces and silks so grand, 

Or the diamonds she wears on her white left hand, 

Or the satin train that sweeps in her track, 

Or the elegant three-ply sealskin sack 

That gracefully covers her shapely back? 

Or why do the people derisively cry 

When "only an editor's wife" rides by? 

Do they envy the palace where she abides, 

Or the gilded coach in which she rides, 

Or her yacht that sports with the lake's white foam, 

Or the troop of servants that go and come 

To do her will in her regal home ? 

Do they envy her gold when they descry 

That it 's "only an editor's wife" goes by? 

They never think of the man who writes 
Through the weary days and the darksome nights, 
To earn the ducats with which to pay 
For the laces fine and the jewels gay, 
And the robes en train and decollete, 
And the other trappings that greet the eye 
When "only an editor's wife "sails by. 

Oh, could they go to his working-place, 
And see his furrowed and pallid face, 
And know the grind of his daily life, — 






464 SHARPS AND FLATS 

How he freely encounters all toil and strife 
To humor the whims of his petted wife, — 
Methinks they would raise their plaudits high 
When "only an editor's wife" rode by. 

January 10, 1884. 



AN OHIO IDYL 

O fathers all, reflect upon 

The touching story and the fate 

Of hapless Mr. Pendleton, 
Who had a daughter and a gate. 

Once said this Mr. Pendleton 

To dapper little John McLean: 
"Here, now, get off that gate, my son, 

And don't come hanging round again! 
You 're not their style, my daughters say; 

Your visits do not bring them joy. 
Get off the gate and run away — 

Come, there 's a clever little boy!" 

Then dapper little John McLean 

Sought out another quiet street, 
Where lived a certain Mr. Payne, 

Who had a daughter young and sweet; 
Engaging this enchanting miss 

In many a twilight t&e-a-tete, 
He whiled away long hours of bliss 

In swinging on the old man's gate. 

Lo, some years after, Messrs. Payne 

And Pendleton were candidates; 
Then did the dapper John McLean 

Recall the story of the gates. 
He lent his vengeful nature to 

Manipulations darkly deft — 
And Mr. Payne pulled glibly through, 

While Pendleton got badly left. 



A SCHERZO 465 



So, fathers all, reflect upon 

The touching story and the fate 

Of hapless Mr. Pendleton, 

Who had a daughter and a gate. 

January 15, 1884. 



A SCHERZO 

One night the charming Gerster said, 

"Now listen, colonel, to me: 
I will not sing — I '11 quit instead — 

Unless I 'm paid what 's due me. 
I 'm mad to think that you should think 

That I am such a greeny 
To let you lavish all the chink 

On Mrs. Nicolini!" 

Then Mapleson in guileful vein 

Protested he was busted; 
And Gerster on the midnight train 

Incontinently dusted. 
Back to her babe in York she hied, — 

This operatic charmer, — 
And put all other roles aside 

For that of simple mamma. 

But Mapleson, when she had fled, 

Forthwith began to worry; 
The telegram he sent her said: 

"Come back, and please to hurry. 
I '11 build a palace-car for you, 

And bear your tantrums meekly, 
And pay your salary when it 's due — 

That is to say, tri-weekly." 

So back to Mapleson went she 

As sweet as dripping honey, 
And now is happy as can be 

Because she got her money. 



466 SHARPS AND FLATS 

When asked what caused the recent row 
They answer 't was the baby; 

This fairy tale 's sufficient now 
To fool the public, maybe. 

January 29, 1884. 



AN OHIO DITTY 

Mary had a little lamb, 

Down in Ohio state, 
And, ere it grew to be a ram, 

Most dismal was its fate. 

Its fleece was long and white and full, 

And Mary loved to shear 
Her lamb for the amount of wool 

It brought her twice a year. 

But once, upon a summer's day, 
She learned, to her dejection, 

Her wool investment didn't pay — 
And so she craved protection. 

And then, with many a pleading word 

And copious flow of tears, 
She flew to genial Mr. Hurd 

To set at rest her fears. 

But Mr. Hurd in scorn did hold 

Poor Mary and her kid, 
And when their tale of woe was told 

No kindly act he did. 

In vain for help the maiden cried 

Upon her bended knees. 
"No tariff, girl," the man replied; 

"Go, serve your lamb with peas!" 



A good man's sorrow 467 



So Mary slew her little lamb — 
As might have been expected, 

For little lambs are n't worth a d- 
When they are not protected. 

January 28, 1884. 



A GOOD MAN'S SORROW 

Abou Ben Halstead — may his tribe increase! — 

Thinking one night to steal a sweet surcease 

From office work, of which he 'd had a greed, 

Called to his side his faithful Romeo Reed, 

And quoth: "By Allah and his great horned spoon, 

I will go home and sleep me until noon 

If I can get a paragraph from you 

To pull to-morrow's editorial through; 

Now, mind you, one short paragraph will do!" 

Good Romeo Reed inclined his reverend head — 
"IsmilKh robang!" ("Good enough!") he said; 
And Halstead straightway hied himself to bed. 

Abou Ben Halstead woke next day at nine, 
And having quaffed, as is his wont, his wine, 
Called for the paper, which he always read 
Propped up by pillows in his regal bed. 
He seized the sheet, and with an eager flout 
He turned the mammoth paper inside out 
To see what Romeo Reed had writ about. 
Abou Ben Halstead's cheeks grew very red; 
He frothed awhile, and stood upon his head; 
His mournful eyes were all ablaze with fire, 
His noble frame quaked with demoniac ire. 
Lo! Romeo's paragraph filled up the page entire! 
February 20, 1884. 



468 SHARPS AND FLATS 



LAMENT OF A NEGLECTED BOSS 

With not a faithful lackey nigh, 

With all my vast resources spent, 
I find myself enshrouded by 

The winter of my discontent. 
Gone are the hours of tranquil bliss 

I fondly used to count mine own, 
And I, at last, am come to this — 

The running of a telephone! 

Before I took this paltry thing 

That keeps a- jingling all the day, 
I was a most puissant king, 

And most despotic was my sway. 
Proud was my lot and proud my mien; 

I sat upon a gilded throne 
And bossed a radical machine 

Where now I boss a telephone! 

Pause, O ye countrymen of mine, 

And drop a sympathetic tear, 
And carve to me this touching line: 

"Oh, what a falling off is here!" 
Dear Riddleberger and Mahone, 

Grant sweet surcease unto my woe 
By wafting through my telephone 

A fond, occasional hello! 
March 17, 1884. 







ROMANCE OF A " CUSS-WORD " 

Broad expanse of shiny shirt-front, 
Cuffs and collar white to match, 

Overcoat with silken facing — 
Just the rig to make a catch. 



COLD CONSOLATION 469 

Pretty lady coming toward him; 

He prepares to make a mash; 
Meets a stumbling horse on crossing — 

Mud flies o'er him with a splash! 

Man who looked so sweet and gentle, 

Like a little suckling lamb, 
Now becomes a raving lion; 

Girl goes by and hears him d — n. 

Girl is shocked beyond expression — 

Thinks his language simply vile; 
Yet believes that she can save him — 

Meets him next time with a smile. 

Man apologizes bravely, 

Says his anger made him rash. 
Girl replies it but convinced her 

He 's a man of proper dash. 

They are married in November; 

Wife is over all her scare; 
Says she thought him soft and sickish 

Till the day she heard him swear. 
March 20, 1884. 



COLD CONSOLATION 

I am booming, brother, booming; 

As the tide of time rolls on 
Thou wilt see me higher looming 

In thy pathway, dearest John. 
But oh, brother, in thy sorrow 

Turn thou not thy face away; 
Be for me, dear John, to-morrow, 

As for thee I am to-day. 



470 SHARPS AND FLATS 

I am booming, brother, booming; 

See the tempests toss my plume; 
See the friends about me grooming, 

Grooming lovingly my boom. 
Lose no time, nor stumble blindly 

Into error, Brother John; 
To my boom, I tell thee kindly, 

Soon or late thou must catch on. 
March 21, 1884. 



MR. HOLMAN'S FAREWELL 

The little boom they said was vain 

Will strike them now as vainer, 
Since you have got aboard the train 
And started o'er the cactus plain, 
O frail and fickle Dana! 

For when you reach the marble halls 

Of pagan Montezuma, 
What ear will heed my piteous calls 
Amid the havoc that appalls 

A boom without a boomer? 

Perhaps some charm of that proud place 

Will swerve you from your duty — 
Will tempt you to forget my face, 
My artless ways and simple grace, 
My modest Hoosier beauty. 

If so it be, my face will haunt 

Your soul where'er you linger; 
Within your ears 1 '11 breathe a taunt, 
Within your eyes I '11 ever flaunt 
My pale and bony finger. 



THE APRIL FOOL 471 

Like amorous Dido am I left 

To torturesome reflection — 
Deceived, cajoled, betrayed, bereft, 
My trusting heart by anguish cleft — 

Though not without objection. 
March 22, 1884. 



THE APRIL FOOL 

Fair was her young and girlish face, 

Her lips were luscious red as wine; 
Her willowy form betrayed a grace 

That seemed to me to be divine. 
One evening at the trysting-place 

I asked this maiden to be mine. 
Unhappy, thrice-unhappy youth 

Was I to court the crushing blow; 
But why delay the awful truth — 

She April-fooled me years ago! 

Filled with a ghastly, grim dismay 

As kneeling at her feet I heard 
This fair but cruel angel say 

That last, unhappy, severing word, 
I fluttered hopelessly away 

Like some forlorn and stricken bird. 
For years I played the cynic's part, 

For years I nursed my secret woe; 
And this reflection galled my heart — 

She April-fooled me years ago! 

But she is forty now, and fat, 
And vanished all her graces are: 

And many a lusty, brawling brat 

Pulls at her skirts and calls her "ma/ 

And I have information that 

Her horrid husband tends a bar. 



472 SHARPS AND FLATS 

And when I see that fleeting years 
Have changed my quondam angel so, 

I thank my stars, 'mid grateful tears, 
She April-fooled me years ago! 

March 27, 1884. 



THE OLD SEXTON 

Nigh to a boom that was newly made 

Leaned Charles A. Dana on his pick and spade: 

He smiled sardonic and paused to wait 

The funeral train through the open gate. 

A savage editor man was he, 

And his eyes were aflame with demoniac glee 

As these words came from his lips so thin: 

"I gather them in — I gather them in! 

"I gather them in, and their final rest 

Is here — down here in the earth's dark breast. 

Hancock I buried four years ago 

'Neath a mossy mound where the daisies blow; 

Holman and Bayard and Field I boom, 

Only to leave them where violets bloom; 

For, heedless of what their grandeur has been, 

I gathered them in — I gathered them in! 

"I gather them in, and I never care 
How the victims rage or the people swear; 
Thurman, McDonald, and Flower, too, 
Have gently flocked to my hullabaloo, 
And now I am patiently waiting here 
For the Grover Cleveland boom to appear; 
And, blind to the chances it has to win, 
I '11 gather it in — I '11 gather it in!" 
July 5, 1884. 



OGLESBY (1884) 473 



OGLESBY (1884) 

When treason boldly stalked the land 

And poisoned hearts of men 
Till traitors rose on every hand, 

A patriot called us then; 
We followed, comrade, — you and I, — 

Where death and wounds were thick, 
And gloried in the battle-cry, 

"Hurrah for Uncle Dick!" 

They say that we, who knew no fears 

Of death and carnage then, 
Are summoned in these after years, 

To follow him again; 
Not with the gun nor with the sword, 

But with the hoe and pick, 
We come, a brave, determined horde — 

Hurrah for Uncle Dick! 

His waving hair was black as night 

In that dear long ago; 
But now with care and age 't is white 

As first December snow; 
But round that old and whitened head 

Have honors, fast and thick, 
A grand, majestic halo shed — 

Hurrah for Uncle Dick! 

Once tall and stately was the form 

That now is stooped and bent; 
Wait till he scents the coming storm 

And marks the base intent 
Of foemen circling round about, 

And see how pow'rful quick 
That grave old body straightens out — 

Hurrah for Uncle Dick! 

And as we rallied in the fray 
With him long years ago, 



474 SHARPS AND FLATS 

So do we rally round, to-day, 
The chief we reverence so. 

Beware the foe, O patriots true, 
Beware each traitorous trick. 

We still are soldiers of the blue- 
Hurrah for Uncle Dick! 

July 10, 1884. 



THE POLITICAL MAUD 

Ben Butler, on a summer's day, 
Stood in a Convention making hay; 
The hay was sweet and the hay was dry, 
But it was n't as cocked as old Ben's eye; 
For old Ben saw on a gelding gay 
Judge Nomination ride that way. 

When the judge saw Ben in the hay at work, 
He stopped his horse with a sudden jerk, 
And he rolled his eyes on the winsome face 
And the buxom form and the air of grace 
And the wealth of cheek and the mesh of hair 
Of sweet Ben Butler a-working there. 

"Oh," sighed the judge, "that the fate were mine 

To wed with a creature so divine! 

With Ben for a mate, my life would seem 

Like a poet's song or an artist's dream; 

But, when they heard of my marital pick, 

How like a steer some folks would kick!" 

So, fearful of what his folks might say, 

Judge Nomination rode away, 

And left Ben Butler standing there 

With her wealth of cheek and her mesh of hair; 

And of all sad words of tongue and pen 

The saddest are these: "He would n't have Ben.' 

July 11, 1884. 



A VIRGILIAN PICNIC 475 



A VIRGILIAN PICNIC 

"Come, Chloe, beauteous maiden, come, 

And here, within the flowery shade, 
Enjoy with me the tuneful hum 

Of bees that swarm throughout the glade. 
Upon the velvet moss reclining, 

And with thy murmurings in mine ear, 
What thought have I of love's repining? 

So come, sweet Chloe, rest thee here." 

"Nay, Corydon; I fear, alack! 

The ants would clamber up my back." 

"Ah, Chloe, here amongst the flow'rs, 

While linnets coo in vines above, 
How sweet to dream away the hours, 

Or weave fair sonnets to my love! 
A zephyr, coming to delight me, 

Breathes in mine ear a soothing tone, 
And tells me Chloe shall requite me, 

And so I smile as eke I prone." 

"Rise, Corydon! I prithee rise! 
You 're proning on the custard-pies." 
July 31, 1884. 



AN ILLINOIS W r AR-SONG 

Come, let us quaff a stirrup-cup 

To Virtue undismayed. 
Fill, comrades, fill your glasses up 

With sparkling Lemonade! 

Here's death to Whiskey, Wine, and Beer, 

To Brandy, Gin, and Rum! 
We have a million voters here — 

A million more will come. 



476 SHARPS AND FLATS 

We '11 pulverize the Liquor pow'r, 
With all its odious jobs, 

Until the Demon Drink shall cow'r 
Beneath the sword of Hobbs! 

The sale of cocktail, punch, and sling, 
We are resolved, must stop. 

As substitute therefor we -bring 
The fragrant Ginger-pop; 

Or else, perchance, refreshing Mead, 

Or Soda-water cool: 
But liquor is a fiend indeed 

We don't intend shall rule. 

Oh, 't is a thief that steals our wits 
And all our manhood robs; 

So we propose to give it fits 
With gallant Brother Hobbs! 

So let us quaff a stirrup-cup 
Before we join the raid. 

Fill, comrades, fill your glasses up 
With sparkling Lemonade! 

August 6, 1884. 



THOMAS A. HENDRICKS'S APPEAL 

How infamous that men should raise 

The foul and bitter lie 
That in the old secession days, 

When din of war was high, 
I dealt in traitorous sneer and brag 

And did not dare to go 
To battle for my country's flag 

Against the rebel foe! 



THOMAS A. HENDKICKS'S APPEAL 477 

Who was it for the Stripes and Stars 

Risked fortune, fame, and life? 
Who bore away the purple scars 

Of many a bloody strife ? 
Who was it led the patriot band 

And held the flag on high? 
Ay, tell me truly, if you can 

Who was it, if not I ? 

At Vicksburg, braving sword and shell, . 

I gloried in the fray 
Till finally I fainting fell 

With one leg shot away; 
But on to Corinth's ghastly field 

I hastened to imbrue, 
And did not hesitate to yield 

A paltry arm or two! 

And when with Sherman to the sea 

Our gallant army cross'd, 
The rebel bullets followed me — 

Another leg I lost; 
But still I gladly drained the cup 

Of deep misfortune's harm, 
And down at Gettysburg gave up 

Another leg and arm! 

So, gallant boys who wore the blue 

Through all that dismal tide, 
By all those bloody days we knew 

When battling side by side, 
Choke off the hideous lying throats 

These slanders issue from — 
And next November cast your vote 

For patriotic Tom! 
August 8, 1884. 



478 SHARPS AND FLATS 



THE EXPLORER'S WOOING 

Oh, come with me to the arctic seas 

Where the blizzards and icebergs grow, 
And dally awhile with the polar breeze 

In the land of the Esquimau. 
We will fish for seal and the great white bears 

In their caves on the frozen shores; 
We will spread our nets in the frigid lairs 

Of the walrus that snorts and roars. 

When the rest of creation swoons with heat 

All pleasant and chipper we '11 be; 
'T would be hard to find a summer retreat 

As cool as the arctic sea. 
We will ramble along in some snowy glade 

With never a sultry sigh, 
Or loll at ease in the grateful shade 

Of an iceberg four miles high. 

So come with me to the arctic pole — 

To the land of the walrus and bear, 
Where the glaciers wave and the blizzards roll, 

And victuals are frequently rare. 
You are plump and fat — with such a mate 

In my iceberg I would dwell, 
In the pleasing hope I could baffle fate 

By eating you au naturel. 
September 3, 1884. 



THE AHKOOND OF SWAT 

When the writer has written with all of his might 
. Of Blaine and of Cleveland a column or more, 
And the editor happens along in the night 

(Ashe generally does betwixt midnight and four) 



A PLEA FOR THE CLASSICS 479 

And kills all the stuff that that writer has writ, 
And calls for more copy at once, on the spot — 

There is none for the writer to turn on and hit 
But that distant old party, the Ahkoond of Swat. 

Now the Ahkoond of Swat is a vague sort of man 

Who lives in a country far over the sea; 
Pray tell me, good reader, if tell me you can, 

What 's the Ahkoond of Swat to you folks or to me ? 
Yet when one must be careful, conservative, too, 

Since the canvass is getting unpleasantly hot, 
If we must abuse some — let us haste to imbrue 

With that foreign old bloomer, the Ahkoond of Swat! 

Yet why should we poke this insipid old king, 

Who lives in the land of the tiger and cane, 
Since the talk we might make on the dotard can't bring 

The sweet satisfaction of a Cleveland or Blaine ? 
A plague on these politics, statesmen, and all 

Who conspire to embarrass the editor's lot; 
And a plague on the man, we implore, who will call 

On a fellow *o write of the Ahkoond of Swat! 

But vain is this fuming, this frenzy, this storm — 

The printers care naught for this protest or that; 
A long, dreadful hollow appears in the "form" — 

And it 's copy they want, with a preference for "fat." 
So here 's to our friend who 's so handy in need, 

Whose useful acquaintance too soon is forgot — 
That distant old party and senile old seed, 

The loathsome and pestilent Ahkoond of Swat! 
September 19, 1884. 



A PLEA FOR THE CLASSICS 

A Boston gentleman declares, 
By all the gods above, below, 

That our degenerate sons and heirs 
Must let tfceir Greek and Latin go! 



480 SHARPS AND FLATS 

Forbid, O Fate, we loud implore, 
A dispensation harsh as that; 

What! wipe away the sweets of yore; 
The dear "Amo, amas, amat"? 

The sweetest hour the student knows 

Is not when poring over French, 
Or twisted in Teutonic throes, 

Upon a hard collegiate bench; 
'T is when on roots and kais and gars 

He feeds his soul and feels it glow, 
Or when his mind transcends the stars 

With "Zoa mou, sas agapo"! 

So give our bright, ambitious boys 

An inkling of these pleasures, too — 
A little smattering of the joys 

Their dead and buried fathers knew; 
And let them sing— while glorying that 

Their sires so sang, long years ago — 
The songs "Amo, amas, amat," 

And "Zoa mou, sas agapo"! 
September 23, 1884. 



THE SECRET OF THE SPHINX 

Upon the hot Egyptian sands, 

Beneath the lurid, blistering skies, 
With stolid face and tireless eyes 

The Sphinx in sombre grandeur stands 

Within that doleful desert place, 
By desolation's doom oppress'd, 
No sweet emotion fills her breast — 

No smile illumes the Sphinx's face. 

They say that many years ago 
A Roman pretor left his home, 
Resolved to go from Rome to roam— 



THE SECRET OF THE SPHINX 481 

A Roman roamin' to and fro. 
This pretor happened, so they say, 

To meet a humorist, whose name 

Was heralded on wings of fame 
Through Boston leagues and leagues away. 

They roamed together far and wide — 

The pretor and the Boston wit — 

Till finally one night they lit 
In Egypt by the Sphinx's side. 
"Now tell me, ere we go to bed 

Within our tents, some funny tale; 

W T ith humorous anecdote regale 
My jaded soul," the pretor said. 

The Sphinx was then as fair a bit 

Of female flesh as you could find, 

And, womanlike, she had a mind 
For stories that partook of wit. 
She, therefore, smiling bent her ear 

To hear the Massachusetts joke 

The famous Boston humorist spoke 
Unto the pretor, listening near. 

What was the joke we do not know— 

The ancient hist'ries do not state, 

Nor legendary lore relate, 
Nor hieroglyphic tablets show; 
But since that Boston wit beguiled 

The Roman pretor with the joke 

Which centuries ago was spoke, 
The hapless Sphinx has never smiled. 
September 23, 1884. 



482 SHARPS AND FLATS 



FANCHON THE CRICKET 

My grandsire, years and years ago, 
In round old English used to praise 
Sweet Maggie Mitchell's pretty ways 

And her fair face that charmed him so. 

Her tuneful voice and curly hair, 
Her coquetry and subtle art 
Ensnared my grandsire's willing heart 

And ever reigned supremely there. 

In time my father felt the force 

Of cunning Maggie Mitchell's smiles, 
And, dazzled by her thousand wiles, 

He sang her glories too, of course. 

Quite natural, then, it was that I — 
Of such a sire and grandsire, too — 
When this dear sprite first met my view 

Should learn to rhapsodize and sigh. 

And now my boy — of tender age — 

Indites a sonnet to the curl 

Of this most fascinating girl 
That ever romped the mimic stage! 

O prototype of girlhood truth, 

Of girlhood glee and girlhood prank, 
By what good fortune hast thou drank 

The waters of eternal youth? 

September 26, 1884. 



NOVEMBER 483 



NOVEMBER 



The wold is drear and the sedges sere, 

And gray is the autumn sky, 
And sorrows roll through my riven soul 

As lonely I sit and sigh 
"Good-by" 

To the goose-birds as they fly. 

With his weird wishbone to the temperate zone 
Came the goose-bird in the spring; 

And he built his nest in the glorious west, 
And sat on a snag to sing, 

Sweet thing! 
Or flap his beautiful wing. 

But the boom of the blast has come at last 

To the goose-bird on the lea, 
And the succulent thing, with shivering wing, 

Flies down to a southern sea. 
Ah me, 

That such separation should be! 

But it 's always so in this world of woe: 

The things that gladden our eye 
Are the surest to go to the bugs, and so 

We can only wearily sigh 
"Good-by" 

To the goose-birds as they fly. 
November 5, 1884. 



PARLEZ-VOUS FRAN£AIS? 

The old man sits inveiled by gloom, 

His bosom heaves with dire dismay; 
For in that editorial room 



484 SHARPS AND FLATS 

There booms no presidential boom, 
And folks no longer come that way 
To whisper, "Parlez-vous Francais?" 

Gone is the time he hoped to be 

A diplomat in Paris gay — 
When, far across the briny sea, 
The festive gamins, tres jolis, 

And fair grisettes decolletees 

Should murmur, "Parlez-vous Francais?' 5 

So let the poor old Joseph rest 
And let him pine his life away; 

Nor vex that journalistic breath 

Which by a hopeless grief 's distressed — 
The hopeless grief he never may 
Respond to "Parlez-vous Francais?" 

November 10, 1884. 



"GEE SWEE ZAMERICANE" 

Why should I pine and languish so? 

Why should I droop and sigh? 
Why should my soul be bowed in woe, 

As weary days go by? 
Why should I drown in sorrow's sea, 

When, through the surf of pain, 
This sweet salvation comes to me: 

''Gee swee Zamericane!" 

I thought diplomacy my forte, 

And yearned for deeds of state 
Amid the solemn pomps of court 

In monarchies effete; 
And most I hankered to abide 

Hard by the river Seine, 
Where I could say, with swelling pride, 

"Gee swee Zamericane!" 



CHRISTMAS 485 



And this is why I made the flop 

Which Reid and Halstead made, 
And this is why I took a drop 

On matters of free trade; 
I ate my words of '76, 

And boomed the "rascal" Blaine, 
And played a thousand Jingo tricks — 

"Gee swee Zamericane!" 

The die 'is cast, the boom is o'er, 

And Blaine is beaten bad — 
The which is why I 'm feeling sore, 

And, likewise, very mad; 
For, after all this harrowing strife, 

I 'm likely to remain 
What I have been through all my life— 

"Gee swee Zamericane!" 
November 11, 1884. 



CHRISTMAS 

My little child comes to my knee 

And tugging pleads that he may climb 
Into my lap to hear me tell 
The Christmas tale he loves so well — 
A tale my mother told to me, 
Beginning "Once upon a time." 

It is a tale of skies that rang 
With angel rhapsodies sublime; 

Of that great host, serene and white, 
The shepherds saw one winter night; 
And of the glorious stars that sang 
An anthem, once upon a time. 



486 SHARPS AND FLATS 

This story of the hallowed years 
Tells of the sacrifice sublime 

Of One who prayed alone and wept 
While his awearied followers slept — 
And how his blood and Mary's tears 
Commingled, once upon a time. 

And now my darling at my side 
And echoes of the distant clime 

Bring that sweet story back to me — 
Of Bethlehem and Calvary, 
And of the gentle Christ that died 
For sinners, once upon a time. 

The mighty deeds that men have told 
In ponderous tomes or fluent rhyme, 
Like misty shadows fade away; 
But this sweet story bides for aye, 
And, like the stars that sang of old, 
We sing of "Once upon a time." 
December 1, 1884. 



CHICAGO WEATHER 

To-day, fair Thisbe, winsome girl! 

Strays o'er the meads where daisies blow, 
Or, ling' ring where the brooklets purl, 

Laves in the cool, refreshing flow. 

To-morrow, Thisbe, with a host 
Of amorous suitors in her train, 

Comes like a goddess forth to coast 
Or skate upon the frozen main. 

To-day, sweet posies mark her track, 
While birds sing gayly in the trees; 

To-morrow morn, her sealskin sack 
Defies the piping polar breeze. 



THE COLLECTOR'S DISCONTENT 487 

So Doris is to-day enthused 

By Thisbe's soft, responsive sighs, 
And on the morrow is confused 

By Thisbe's cold, repellent eyes. 
December 6, 1884. 



THE COLLECTOR'S DISCONTENT 

A Dibdin properly displayed, 
An Elzevir ensconced on high, 

My hand upon an Aldus laid — 
I felt a tear fall from my eye. 

The cause? And is there none who knows 
The pangs ambition idly wields? 

Is there a man that to the throes 
Of covetousness never yields ? 

Perhaps some day some graven urn 
Or parchment old may bring to view 

The name of him that did not yearn 

For the books that dear old Burton knew. 
I don't believe it, though — do you? 

January 30, 1889. 



A LEAP-YEAR LAMENT 

The golden year is nearly sped — 

This year of girlish wooing; 
And lo, my hope of love is dead, 

And fate is past undoing! 
When suitors came in gentle spring 

And proffered their caresses, 
Like some coquettish, giddy thing, 

I spurned their fond addresses. 



488 SHARPS AND FLATS 

So Minnie, Maggie, Maud, and Belle, 

Miranda, Jane, and Jessie, 
Maria, Nannie, Ruth, and Nell, 

And charming blue-eyed Bessie 
Went wooing other kindlier men 

Too numerous to mention; 
And I, by this hegira, then 

Was left without attention. 

But in the sere of autumn came 

That sweetest maid of many, 
With wit. and beauty known to fame — 

The blithe and winsome Jennie; 
And having wooed as women can, 

Protesting she adored me, 
She wed her father's hired man; 

And that completely floored me! 

silly celibate, that spurned 
The leap-year wooing vernal, 

How hast thy haughty scorning turned 
To self-reproach eternal! 

1 'd give my wealth, my life, my fame, 

If I could summon to me 
In this bleak hour those nymphs that came 

In early spring to woo me! 
December 17, 1884. 



ILL REQUITED 

Oh, hand me down my spectacles, 
Oh, hand them down to me, 

That I may read and know, indeed, 
If our good Grover C. 

Hath bid me stand at his right hand, 
Where I have longed to be. 



GRANT 489 



Oh, hand me down my microscope; 

These specs ill serveth me: 
But I have hope the microscope 

Will give me pow'r to see 
My noble name where lasting fame 

Intended it should be. 

Alas! nor specs nor microscope 

Nor aught availeth me. 
My name is missed from all the list 

Where it should surely be. 
And if, ere long, affairs go wrong, 

The blame 's with Grover C. 
March 5, 1885. 



GRANT 



His was the sword that from its scabbard leapt 
To cleave the way where freedom could be won, 

And where it led a conquering army swept 
Till all was done. 

Then that same valorous hand which swung the sword 
Back to its sheath returned the patriot blade, 

And bore sweet peace where crushed rebellion's horde 
Stood all dismayed. 

And now a spirit, speeding from above, 

Chills that great heart with his destroying breath, 

And all a people's reverence and love 
Are mocked by death. 

April 1, 1885. 



490 SHARPS AND FLATS 



FROM THE SAME CANTEEN 

From hill and plain to the State of Maine 

The veterans toiled along, 
And they rent the air with the tuneful blare 

Of trumpets and of song; 
That their throats were dry there will none deny, 

But little they recked, I ween, 
As they gathered round on the old camp-ground 

To drink .from the same canteen. 

The tales of old were again retold, 

And they sang of the war once more — 
Till the word went round like a thunder sound, 

"Let us drink to the days of yore!" 
A rapturous glee that was fair to see 

Enveloped the martial scene — 
But there came a change that was pitiful strange 

When they drank from the old canteen. 

The veteran throng sings now no song 

That is keyed in the grand old strain, f 
And the air is blue with the hullabaloo 1 1 

Of the soldiers who marched to Maine. 
Not even beer is the proffered cheer, 

Nor a jug nor a flask is seen; 
But it 's lemonade of a watery grade / ' 

That they drink from the same canteen! 

June 26, 1885. 



LITTLE MISS DANDY 

The other night as in my bed 

I lay profoundly sleeping, 
An angel babe with hairless head 

Came through the darkness creeping; 



SPIRIT LAKE 491 

And, waking at the dawn of day, 

Bliss percolated through me 
When, smiling in her artless way, 

She murmured "papa" to me. 

Strange, was it not ? But stranger still 

What next claimed my attention — 
The robes of wealth with tuck and frill 

Too numerous to mention. 
Whence came these bibs with lace bedecked — 

These flannels all so handy? 
And who could possibly suspect 

The coming of Miss Dandy? 

Well, she shall live a thousand years, 

Unmindful of each morrow; 
Her eyes shall know no plash of tears, 

Her heart no touch of sorrow; 
And she shall dress in silk and lace 

And feed on taffy candy — 
God bless her fuzzy little face, 

My little angel dandy! 
August 11, 1885. 



SPIRIT LAKE 

Upon this beautiful expanse 

Of purple waves and spray 
The wanton prairie zephyrs dance 

With sunbeams all the day. 
And ships go sailing to and fro; 

The sea-gulls circle round; 
Above the plash of ebb and flow 

The children's voices sound. 

See how the playful pickerel speeds 

Upon his devious way 
Among the lissome, clinging weeds, 

In hot pursuit of prey; 



492 SHARPS AND FLATS 

And here or there the greedy bass 

In their erratic flight 
Like dark electric shadows pass 

Before our wondering sight. 

Oh, what a wealth of life is here — 

What pike and carp abound! 
Within these waters, cool and clear, 

What game may not be found! 
You only have to bait your hook 

And cast it in the spray; 
Down — fathoms down — it sinks; and look! 

You 've caught your finny prey. 

O beauteous lake with pebbly shore 

And skies of azure hue, 
With gulls and zephyrs skimming o'er 

Thy waves of restless blue, 
To thee I dedicate this hymn 

In melancholic spite — - 
To thee, where bass and pickerel swim, 

But only bullheads bite. 



TO DENMAN THOMPSON 

There 's somethin' in your homely ways, 

Your simple speech, and honest face 
That takes us back to other days 

And to a distant, cherished place. 
We seem to see the dear old hills, 

The clover-patch, the pickerel pond, 
And we can hear the mountain rills 

A-singin' in the haze beyond. 

There is the lane wherein we played, 
An' there the hillside, rough an' gray, 

O'er which we little Yankees strayed 
A-checkerberryin' ev'ry day; 



' ' PURITAN " — ' ' GENEST A ' ' 493 

The big red barn, the old stone wall, 
The pippin-tree, the fav'rite beach — 

We seem to recognize 'em all 

In thy quaint face an' honest speech! 

An' somehow when we see 'em rise 

Like spectres of those distant years, 
We kinder weaken, and our eyes 

See dimly through a mist o' tears; 
For there 's no thing will touch the heart 

Like mem'ry's subtle wand, I trow, 
An' there 's no tear that will not start 

At thought of home an' long ago. 

You make us boys an' girls again, 

An' like a tender, sweet surprise, 
Come thoughts of those dear moments when 

Our greatest joy was mother's pies! 
I 'd ruther have your happy knack 

Than all the arts which critics praise — 
The knack o' takin' old folks back 

To childhood homes and childhood days. 
September 2, 1885. 



"PURITAN "— " GENESTA" 

A century or so ago, 

W T hen we was young an' skittish, 
We started out to let folks know 

That we could tan the British; 
From Bunker Hill ter Southern sile, 

And on the ragin' water, 
We warmed 'em in sich hearty style, 

They quickly begged fur quarter. 



494 SHARPS AND FLATS 

Waal, ever sence them early days 

When we was young an' skittish, 
We Yanks hev been disposed to raise 

Ther devil with ther British; 
Thar 's nary game they kin suggest 

But thet we Yankees larn 'em 
That we are cuter than the best 

Of all their lords — goll darn 'em! 

With our Kintucky colts we 've beat 

Their stables highfalutin; 
Their sportin' men hev met defeat 

At cricket and at shootin'; 
Our pugilists, with skill an' ease, 

Hev stopped all furrin blowin'; 
Our oarsmen on the lakes an' seas 

Hev. beat 'em all a-rowin'l 

An' now, ter save that silver cup 

From England's proud "Genesta," 
The Yankee folks have kunjured up 

A skimmin' dish ter best 'er. 
Thar ain't no ship thet swims the sea 

Or sails the briny ocean — 
No matter what her flag may be — 

Kin beat a Yankee notion! 

But what o' thet ? It 's all in fun, 

And thar won't be no squealin'; 
Fur Yank an' Britisher is one 

In language, blud, an' feelin'! 
An' though the times we've played 'em smart 

Are numbered by the dozens, 
The Yankee feels, down in his heart, 

"God bless our British cousins!" 
September 15, 1885. 



THE SONG OF THE MUGWUMP 495 



THE SONG OF THE MUGWUMP 

The Mugwump sat on a hickory limb, 

"Too-hoo!" 
In the autumn twilight, dank and dim, 

"Too-hoo!" 
When, coming along, a Democrat heard 
The doleful voice of the curious bird 
Sadly moaning this w T ild, weird word, 
"Too-hoo!" 

"Oh, why do you sit on that limb and cry 

'Too-hoo?' 
Does it mean a lingering, last good-by — 

Adieu ? 
You 've been our guest a paltry year, 
And now you are going to disappear 
With a parting flip-flop, sad and sear — 

Boo-hoo!" 

But the Mugwump scorned the Democrat's wail, 

"Too-hoo!" 
And flirting its false, fantastic tail, 

"Too-hoo!" 
It spread its wings and it soared away, 
And left the Democrat in dismay, 
With no pitch hot and the devil to pay — 

"Too-hoo!" 
October 6, 1885. 



SONG FOR THE DEPARTED 

Oh, what has become of the Mugwump-bird 
In this weather of wind and snow, 

And does he roost as high as we heard 
He roosted a year ago? 



496 SHARPS AND FLATS 

A year ago and his plumes were red 
As the deepest of cardinal hues, 

But in the year they 've changed, 't is said, 
To the bluest of bilious blues! 

A year ago and this beautiful thing 

Warbled in careless glee; 
But now the tune he is forced to sing 

Is pitched in a minor key. 

It 's oh, we sigh, for the times gone by 
When the Mugwump lived to laugh — 

When, coy and shy, he roosted high, 
And could n't be caught with chaff. 

And it 's oh, we say, for the good old day 
Which never again may come — 

When the Mugwump threaded his devious way 
And whistled his lumpty-tum! 

November 5, 1885. 



A SONG OF THE CHRISTMAS WIND 

As on my roving way I go 

Beneath the starlight's gleaming, 
Upon a bank of feathery snow 

I find a moonbeam dreaming; 
I crouch beside the pretty miss 

And cautiously I give her 
My gentlest, tend'rest little kiss, 
And frown to see her shiver. 
Oho! Oho! 
On bed of snow 
Beneath the starlight's gleaming, 
I steal the bliss 
Of one sweet kiss 
From that fair friend a-dreaming. 



AN OVEEWORKED WORD 497 



I scamper up the gloomy street 

With wild, hilarious shrieking, 
And each rheumatic sign I meet 

I set forthwith to creaking; 
The sooty chimneys wheeze and sigh 

In dismal apprehension, 
And when the rich man passes by 
I pay him marked attention. 
Oho! Oho! 
With gusts of snow 
I love to pelt and blind him; 
But I kiss the curls 
Of the beggar-girls 
Who crouch in the dark behind him. 



In summer-time a posy fair 

Bloomed on the distant heather, 
And every day we prattled there 
And sang our songs together; 
And thither, as we sang or told 

Of love's unchanging glory, 
A maiden and her lover strolled, 
Repeating our sweet story. 
"Oho! Oho!" 
We murmur low — 
The maid and I, together; 

For summer 's sped 
And love is dead 
Upon the distant heather. 
December 26, 1885. 



AN OVERWORKED WORD 

We wake up and make up, 
We rake up, we fake up, 
And use the word "up" when we can. 



498 SHARPS AND FLATS 

We drink up and think up, 
We kink up and shrink up, 
And do up a shirt or a man. 

We slack up or back up, 
We stack up and whack up, 

And hold up a man or an ace; 
We beer up and cheer up, 
We steer up and clear up, 

And work up ourselves or a case. 

We walk up and talk up, 
We stalk up and chalk up, 

And everywhere "up" 's to be heard; 
We wet up and set up, 
But hanged if we let up 

On "up," the much overworked word, 

March 6, 1886. 



A WESTERN BOY'S LAMENT 

I wish 't I lived away down East, where codfish salt the ssa, 
And where the folks have pumpkin pie and apple-sass for tea. 
Us boys who 's livin' here out West don't get more 'n half a show; 
We don't have nothin' else to do but jest to sort of grow. 

Oh, if I was a bird I 'd fly a million miles away 

To where they feed their boys on pork and beans three times a 

day; 
To where the place they call the Hub gives out its shiny spokes, 
And where the folks — so father says — is mostly women-folks. 
March 26, 1886. 



HUMANITY 499 



HUMANITY 



The big-eyed baby, just across the way, 

Longs for the moon and reaches out to clasp it; 

He lunges at the crescent cold and gray, 

And waxes wroth to find he cannot grasp it. 

Be hushed, O babe, and give thy grief a rest; 

Better a thousand tunes for thee to ponder 
Upon the lacteal wealth of mother's breast 

Than reach for that vain Milky Way up yonder. 

Yet am I like this man of recent birth 
That lets a foolish disappointment fret it; 

Scorning the sky, I 'in reaching for the earth, 
And grunt and groan because I do not get it. 

Apri] 12, 1886. 



THE WHITE HOUSE BALLADS 

KING GROVER CRAVES PIE 

King Grover at his table round 

Sate feasting once, and there was sound 

Of good things said and sly; 
When presently King Grover spake: 
"A murrain seize this futile cake — 

Come, Daniel, pass the pie!" 

Then quoth Sir Daniel, flaming hot: 
"Pie hath not been in Camelot 

Since Arthur was our King; 
Soothly, I ween, 't were vain to make 
Demand for pie where there is cake, 

For pie 's a ribald thing!" 



500 SHARPS AND FLATS 

"Despite King Arthur's rash decree, 
Which ill beseemeth mine and me," 

King Grover answered flat, 
"I will have pie three times a day — 
Let dotards cavil as they may — 

And pumpkin pie at that!" 

Then, frowning a prodigious frown, 
Sir Daniel pulled his visor down, 

And, with a mighty sigh, 
Out strode he to the kitchen, where 
He bade the varlet slaves prepare 

Three times each day a pie. 

Thenceforth King Grover was content, 
And all his reign in peace was spent; 

And when 't was questioned why 
He waxed so hale, and why, the while, 
The whole domain was free from guile, 

He simply answered, "Pie." 
April 21, 1886 



SISTER ROSE S SUSPICIONS 

"What of these tidings, Grover dear, 
That are reported far and near 

Upon suspicion's breath? 
And is it true, as eke 't is said, 
That you have made your mind to wed?" 

Quoth Rose Elizabeth. 

With that his conscience smote him sore — 
He cast his eyes upon the floor, 

But not a word he saith. 
Then did she guess his secret flame; 
In sooth she was a crafty dame, 

Was Rose Elizabeth. 



THE WHITE HOUSE BALLADS 501 

She flaunted out into the hall 

In grievous wrath and tears withal, 

Did Rose Elizabeth; 
And when he saw her grewsome rage 
That no entreaties could assuage, 

He fiercely muttered, " 'S death!" 
April 24, 1886. 



THE WEDDIXG-DAY 

Oh, hand me down my spike-tail coat 

And reef my waistband in, 
And tie this necktie round my throat 

And fix my bosom-pin; 
I feel so weak and flustered like, 

I don't know what to say — 
For I 'm to be wedded to-day, Dan'l, 

I 'm to be wedded to-day ! 

Put double sentries at the doors 

And pull the curtains down, 
And tell the Democratic bores 

That I am out of town: 
It 's funny folks hain't decency 

Enough to stay away 
When I 'm to be wedded to-day, Dan'l 

I 'm to be wedded to-day! 



The bride, you say, is calm and cool 

In satin robes of white. 
Well, I am stolid, as a rule, 

But now I 'm flustered quite; 
Upon a surging sea of bliss 

My soul is borne away, 
For I 'm to be wedded to-day, Dan'l, 

I 'm to be wedded to-day! 
May 2, 1886. 



502 SHARPS AND FLATS 



THE TYING OF THE TIE 



Now was Sir Grover passing wroth. 
"A murrain seize the man," he quoth, 

"Who first invented ties! 
Egad, they are a grievous bore, 
And tying of them vexeth sore 

A person of my size!" 

Lo, at his feet upon the floor 

Were sprent the neckties by the score, 

And collars all a-wreck; 
And good Sir Grover's cheeks were flame, 
And good Sir Grover's arms were lame 

With wrestling at his neck. 

But much it joyed him when he heard 
Sir Daniel say: "I fain will gird 

Your necktie on for you, 
As 't will not cause you constant fear 
Of bobbing round beneath your ear 

Or setting you askew." 

Sir Daniel grasped one paltry tie 
And, with a calm, heroic eye 

And confidential air 
(As who should say, "Odds bobs, I vow 
There 's nothing like the knowing how"), 

He mounted on a chair. 



And whilst Sir Grover raised his chin 
(For much he did respect the pin) 

Sir Daniel tied the tie, 
The which when good Sir Grover viewed- 
Albeit it belike a dude — 

He heaved a grateful sigh. 
May 3, 1886. 



THE WHITE HOUSE BALLADS 503 



THE KISSING OF THE BRIDE 

And when at last, with priestly pray'r 
And music mingling in the air, 

The nuptial knot was tied, 
Sir Grover, flaming crimson red, 
"Soothly, it is my mind," he said, 

"That I salute the bride!" 

Whereat upon her virgin cheek, 

So smooth, so plump, and comely eke, 

He did implant a smack 
So lusty that the walls around 
Gave such an echo to the sound 

As they had like to crack. 

No modern salutation this, 

No mincing, maudlin Mugwump kiss, 

To chill a bride's felicity; 
Exploding on her blushing cheek, 
Its virile clamor did bespeak 

Arcadian simplicity. 
May 3, 1886. 



THE CUTTING OF THE CAKE 

Sir Grover quoth: "Let each one here 
Of soups and wine and sumptuous cheer 

Most heartily partake; 
And whilst you are thus well employed, 
I ween my consort will be joyed 

To cut the bridal cake!" 

Then saith the bride, as courtesying low: 
"There is no sweeter task, I trow, 

Than which is now my life, 
To do thy will, my liege; so I 
Would fain with thy request comply 

If I but had a knife." 



504 SHARPS AND FLATS 

Thereat of shining blades a score 
Leaped from their knightly sheaths before 

You could have counted two; 
As each brave knight right humbly prayed 
The lady to accept his blade 

Wherewith her will to do. 

But Lady Frances shook her head 
And with sweet dignity she said: 

"None other's blade I '11 take 
Save his who hath my rev'rence won — 
My pole-star and my central sun — 

And his shall cut the cake!" 

Then did Sir Grover bend him to 
His trousers pockets, whence he drew 

A jack-knife, big and fat, 
The which he gave into her hand, 
Whereat the others murmured, and 

They marvelled much thereat. 

But when the cake was cut, the rest 
Made proper hurry to attest 

In knightly phrase emphatic 
How that the cake was passing nice, 
And how the blade that cleft each slice 

Was truly democratic. 
May 4, 1886. 



THE PASSING OF THE COMPLIMENT 



Eftsoons the priest had made his say, 
The courtly knights and ladies gay 

Did haste from every side, 
With honeyed words and hackneyed phrase 
And dainty smiles withal, to praise 

Sir Grover's blushing bride. 



THREE DAYS IN SPRINGTIME 505 

Out spake the courtly Sir Lamar: 
"Of all fair brides, you, lady, are 

The fairest I have seen; 
Not only of this castle grand, 
But of all hearts throughout the land, 

Are you acknowledged queen!" 

Whereat the Lady Frances bowed; 
And rapturous murmurs in the crowd 

Did presently attest 
That of the chestnuts uttered there 
This chestnut was without compare — 

Foredating all the rest. 
May 4, 1886. 



THREE DAYS IN SPRINGTIME 



On such a day as this old Notting Wood 
Made gentle answer from her secret glades 
Unto the tumult of the lusty blades 

That owned no liege save merry Robin Hood. 
Deep in the haunts of velvet doe and buck 
Lolled gallant Will and pursy Friar Tuck, 

Quaffing brown ale but last October brewed. 
Whilst of his flame the amorous Allen troll'd, 

Upon the sward beyond, 'mid blithesome shouts 
That mocked each broken pate, the yeomen bold 

Plied their stout quarter-staffs in bloody bouts. 

Apart from all the rest, good Robin lay, 

And sorely grieved that, lo, for many a day 

The varlet sheriff had not rode that way. 



n 



On such a day as this the Nazarene 

Came from his lowly fisher home and stood 
Upon the shore of restless Galilee; 



506 SHARPS AND FLATS 

And as he viewed the ever-changing scene, 
He heard the breezes whisper to the sea 
How they had come that morning from a wood, 

Where, in the warmth of springtime, all was green; 
How they had lingered there in furtive mood; 
How they had kissed a crucifixion tree 

That angels guarded; and the listening One 
Bowed down His head in sweet humility. 

"Father, Thy will," He cried, "not mine, be done." 

Then sped the vernal breezes, fair and free, 
To bear the tidings back to Calvary. 
April 26, 1886. 



SAG HARBOR 

Three authors stood upon the beach 

And watched the fishing-smacks heave to; 
As far as human eye could reach, 

Swept one expanse of saline blue. 
First Hawthorne spoke: "While ebbs the tide, 

Suppose we three a-fishing go ? " 
" 'T is well," the white-haired Stoddard cried. 

"Amen," quoth Reverend E. P. Roe 

" 'Neath yonder hedge, where burdocks blow 

And chirps the cricket to his mate, 
Methinks the plethoric gentles grow; 

Come, let us dig a few for bait." 
Thus big, strong Julian Hawthorne said; 

But with a smile that answered "No," 
The dear old Stoddard shook his head; 

And quoth to Reverend E. P. Roe: 

"Although, assuredly, I am 

Unlearn' d in piscatorial lore, 
I mind me that the modest clam 

Beats all your bait that grows ashore; 



THE 5TH OF JULY 507 

Still care I not, and you, friend Roe, 
Shall name the bait and fix the terms; 

So now decide before we go — 

Shall it be clams or angleworms ? " 

" 'T is not for such a wretch as I 

To say what shall or shall not be, 
For He who heeds the raven's cry 

Will care, in His good time, for me. 
Whether upon the ocean tides 

Or by the water-brooks I go, 
I '11 take the bait the Lord provides!" 

Remarked the Reverend E. P. Roe. 

July 3, 1886. 



THE 5TH OF JULY 

The sun climbs up, but still the tyrant Sleep 
Holds fast our baby boy in his embrace; 
The slumb'rer sighs, anon athwart his face 

Faint, half-suggested frowns like shadows creep. 

One little hand lies listless on his breast, 

One little thumb sticks up with mute appeal, 
While motley burns and powder-marks reveal 

The fruits of boyhood's patriotic zest. 

Our baby's faithful poodle crouches near; 

He, too, is weary of the din and play 

That come with glorious Independence Day, 
But which, thank God! come only once a year! 
And Fido, too, has suffered in this cause, 

Which once a year right noisily obtains; 

For Fido's tail — or what thereof remains — 
Is not so fair a sight as once it was. 
July 7, 1886. 



508 SHARPS AND FLATS 

A POEM IN THREE CANTOS 



From the land of logs and peaches 

Came a callow jay-bird dressed 
In homespun coat and breeches 

And a gaudy velvet vest; 
His eyes were red and wistful, 

And he gawped a rural stare, 
Yet, withal, he had a fistful 

Of the stuff that speeds the mare. 

II 

9 to 4. 

in 

Confound the tarnal tallies 

That mulct the callow jay! 
Confound the sharp that dallies 

With Detroit's wealth to-day! 
Confound the fate that teaches 

The jay to warble low! 
But bless the land of peaches 

Where the royal suckers grow! 

July 9, 1886. 



IN PRAISE OF TRUTH AND SIMPLICITY IN SONG 

Oh, for the honest, blithesome times 

Of bosky Sherwood long ago, 
When Allen trolled his amorous rhymes 

And Robin twanged his crafty bow; 
When Little John and Friar Tuck 

Traversed the greenwood far and near, 
Feasting on many a royal buck 

Washed down with brown October beer! 



THE FOOL 509 

Beside their purling sylvan rills, 

What knew these yeomen bold and free 
Of envious cares and grewsome ills 

That now, sweet friend, vex you and me? 
Theirs but to roam the leafy glade, 

Beshrewing sheriffs, lords, and priests, 
To loll supine beneath the shade, 

Regaling monarchs with their feasts. 

The murrain seize these ribald times 

When there is such a lust for gold 
That poets fashion all their rhymes, 

Like varlet tradesfolk, to be sold! 
Not so did Allen when he troll'd 

His ballads in that merry glade; 
Nay, in those courteous days of old 

The minstrel spurned the tricks of trade! 

So, joyous friend, when you and I 

Sing to the world our chosen theme, 
Let 's do as do the birds that fly 

Careless o'er woodland, wold, and stream: 
Sing Nature's song, untouched of art — 

Sing of the forest, brook, and plain; 
And, hearing it, each human heart 

Will vibrate with the sweet refrain. 
August 16, 1886. 



THE FOOL 

A fool, when plagued by fleas by night, 

Quoth: "Since these neighbors so despite me, 

I think I will put out the light 

And then they cannot see to bite me!" 

November 26, 1886. 



510 SHARPS AND FLATS 

TO THE LAD YE JULIA 

ON HER X BIRTHDAY 

Belle semper eadem 

PUELLA PULCHRA 

Time, by Julia's face enchanted, 

Made with Love a bargain rare; 
These the terms that Eros granted 

In the interest of his fair: 
When old Chronos, in his yearly 

Round, must visit beauty's queen, 
Love should turn the glass, while idly ■ 

Time would bask beneath her een — 

Julia being then sweet 'steen. 

UXOR PULCHRIOR 

Cupid, cunning rogue, delighted 
At the chance to cheat his foe, 

Bound the pact with kisses plighted — 
This was several years ago. 

Of the scheme no doubt that you '11 u- 
Nite in saying: "Well we ween 

'Gainst the charms of Ladye Julia 
Love 's but time in quarantine — 
Julia '11 always be sweet 'steen!" 

MATRE PULCHERRIMA 

Since, in all the white Decembers, 

For this day doth Chronos yearn; 
Love sets the glass, then straight remembers 

Back the dial's hand to turn. 
So old Tempus, edax rerum, 

May not mar the peerless sheen 
Of her beauty. Dixi verum. 

This is why I envy ... — 

Julia 's always lovely 'steen! 

The Doctor. 
December 14, 1886 



A BALLAD OF ANCIENT OATHS 511 



A BALLAD OF ANCIENT OATHS 

Ther ben a knyghte, Sir Hoten hight, 

That on a time did swere 
In mighty store othes mickle sore, 

Which grieved his wiffe to here. 

Soth, whenne she scofft, his wifTe did oft 

Swere as a ladye may; 
"T faith," "F sooth," or "lawk/' in truth, 

Ben alle that wiffe wold say. 

Soe whenne her goodman waxed him wood 

She mervailed much to here 
The hejeous sound of othes full round 

The which her lord did swere. 



"Now pray thee, speke and tell me eke 
What thing hath vexed thee soe?" 

The wiffe she cried; but hee replied 
By swereing moe and moe. 

He sweren zounds which be Gog's wounds, 

By bright Marie and Gis, 
By sweit Sanct Ann and nolle Tan, 

And by Bryde's bell, ywis; 

By nolle grails, by 'slids and 'snails, 

By old Sanct Dunstan bauld, 
The Virgin faire that Him did beare, 

By Him that Judas sauld; 

By Arthure's sword, by Paynim horde, 

By holie modyr's teir, 
By Cokis breath, by Zooks and 'sdeath, 

And by Sanct Swithen deir; 



512 SHARPS AND FLATS 

By divells alle, both greate and smalle, 
And all in hell there be, 

By bread and salt, and by Gog's malt, 
And by the blody tree; 

By Him that worn the crown of thorn, 
And by the sun and mone, 

By deir Sanct Blane and Sanct Fillane, 
And three kings of Cologne; 

By the gude Lord and His sweit word, 
By him that herryit hell, 

By blessed Jude, by holie Rude, 
And eke by Gad himsel'! 

He sweren soe (and mickle moe) 
It made man's flesch to creepen; 

The air ben blue with his ado, 
And sore his wiffe ben wepen. 

GifT you wold know why sweren soe 
The good man hight Sir Hoten, 

He ben full wroth because, in soth, 
He leesed his coler boten. 

March 1, 1887. 



THE SUSCEPTIBLE WIDOW 

I show, by my distressful tones 

And by my doleful features, 
How much I miss the Reverend Jones. 

That best of modern preachers. 
When his Chicago work was done 

He paused not to consider 
What grief the parting wrought upon 

One lorn and lonely widder. 



pike's peak 513 

I used to wend my way each night 

To revel in his teachings; 
My burdened soul grew airy light 

Beneath his magic preachings. 
I occupied a seat reserved 

For struggling young beginners, 
And hung upon the blasts he served 

To unrepentant sinners. 

Farewell to those delicious times 

For silent adoration! 
My idol speeds to other climes 

To ply his sweet vocation. 
Oh that he might forget her not 

Who boldly makes assertion 
That from her lonely, widowed lot 

She hankers for conversion! 
April 6, 1886. 



PIKE'S PEAK 

I stood upon the peak, amid the air; 

Below me lay the peopled, busy earth. 
Life, life, and life again was everywhere, 

And everywhere were melody and mirth, 
Save on that peak, and silence brooded there. 

I vaunted then myself, and half aloud 

I gloried in the journey I had done: 
Eschewing earth and earth's seductive crowd, 

I 'd scaled this steep, despite the rocks and sun; 
Of such a feat might any man be proud! 

But, as I boasted thus, my burro brayed; 

I turned, and lo ! a tear was in his eye, 
And as I gazed, methought the burro saved: 

" Prithee, who brought you up this mountain high- 
Was it your legs or mine the journey made?" 



514 SHARPS AND FLATS 

Then moralled I: The sturdiest peak is Fame's I 
And there be many on its very height, 

Who strut in pride and vaunt their empty claims, 
While those poor human asses who delight 

To place them there have unremembered names! 

April 6, 1887. 



LONGINGS 

I long for some intenser life, 
Some wilder joy, some sterner strife! 
A dull, slow stream whose waters pass 
Through weary wastes of dry morass, 
Through reptile-breeding levels low — 
A sluggish ooze and not a flow — 
Choked up with fat and slimy weeds 
The current of my life proceeds. 

Once more to meet the advancing sun 
Earth puts her bridal glories on; 
Once more beneath the summer moons 
The whippoorwill her song attunes; 
Once more the elements are rife 
With countless forms of teeming life. 
Life fills the air and fills the deeps; 
Life from the quickened clod upleaps; 

But all too feeble is the ray 
That glances on our Northern day; 
And man, beneath its faint impress, 
Grows sordid, cold, and passionless. 

I long to greet those ardent climes 
Where the sun's burning heat sublimes 
All forms of being, and imparts 
Its fervor even to human hearts; 
To see uptowering, grand and calm, 
The king of trees, the lordly palm, 



FROM THE RUBAIYAT OF OMAR KHAYYAM 515 

And, when night darkens through the skies, 
Watch the strange constellations rise; 
The floral pomps, the fruits of gold, 
The fiery life I would behold; 
The swart, warm beauties, luscious-lipped, 
With hearts in passion's lava dipped; 
Nature's excess and overgrowth — 
The light and splendor of the South! 

Or if it be my lot to bear 
This pulseless life, this blank despair, 
Waft me, ye winds, unto those isles 
Round which the fair Pacific smiles; 
Where, through the sun-bright atmosphere, 
Their purple peaks the mountains rear; 
Where earth is garmented in light, 
And with unfading spring is bright 
Then, if my life must be a dream, 
Without a plan, without a scheme, 
From purpose as from action free, 
A dream of beauty it shall be. 

(Attributed to) Horace Rublee. 
July 4, 1888. 



FROM THE RUBAIYAT OF OMAR KHAYYAM 

Unto a withered palm-tree clinging, 
A yusef-bird was wildly singing, 

And "yusef, yusef" was the word 
That to my very* soul went winging. 

And came to me in my dejection 
The keen and harrowing reflection: 

'"Thou art indeed a yusef-bird; 
I ate your kind the last election!" 
August 3, 1889. 



516 SHARPS AND FLATS 



MEIN FAEDER BED 

Ach, faeder bed! mein faeder bed! 

Upon thy body softly spread, 

What Cold von Winter shall I dread ? 

All through the night no touch of storm 
Shall come to nip or chill my form — 
Du bist so grosser goot und warm! 

The winds that howl I need not fear, 
But with that faeder bed to cheer, 
I dream von Wiener wurst und beer! 

Sometimes at night, in turning o'er, 

I made that bed upon the floor. 

Ach, then I shivered some, and swore! 

But now I either turn mit skill 
Or lie in bed sahr grosser still; 
I make me not to swear or chill. 

My Faderland is auf der sea, 
Und when I sleep wo Yankees be 
How vainly shall I pine for thee! 

How, when I lay my weary head 
Below ein cotton sheet and spread, 
Shall I lament das faeder bed! 



Yet still shall pleasing dreams combine 
To waft me hence what joys are thine, 
O faeder bed, beyond the Rhine! 
December 14, 1889. 



BETHLEHEM TOWN 517 



BETHLEHEM TOWN 

There burns a star o'er Bethlehem town — 

See, O my eyes! 
And gloriously it beameth down 
Upon a virgin mother meek 
And Him whom solemn Magi seek. 
Burn on, O star! and be the light 
To guide us all to Him this night! 

The angels walk in Bethlehem town — 

Hush, O my heart! 
The angels come and bring a crown 
To Him, our Saviour and our King; 
And sweetly all this night they sing. 
Sing on in rapturous angel throng, 
That we may learn that heavenly song! 

Near Bethlehem town there blooms a tree — 

O heart, beat low! 
And it shall stand on Calvary! 
But from the shade thereof we turn 
Unto the star that still shall burn 
When Christ is dead and risen again 
To mind us that He died for men. 

There is a cry in Bethlehem town — 

Hark, O my soul! 
'T is of the Babe that wears the crown. 
It telleth us that man is free — 
That He redeemeth all and me! 
The night is sped — behold the morn! 
Sing, O my soul; the Christ is born! 
December 27, 1889. 



518 SHARPS AND FLATS 



IN HOLLAND 



Our course lay up a smooth canaL 

Through tracts of velvet green, 
And through the shade that windmills made 

And pasture-lands between. 
The kine had canvas on their backs 

To temper autumn's spite, 
And everywhere there was an air 

Of comfort and delight. 



My wife, dear philosophic soul! 
Saw here whereof to prate: 

"Vain fools are we across the sea 
To boast our nobler state! 

Go North or South or East or West, 
Or whereso'er you please, 

.You shall not find what 's here combined- 
Equality and ease. 

"How tidy are these honest homes 

In every part and nook! 
The men-folk wear a prosperous air, 

The women happy look. 
Seeing the peace that smiles around, 

I would our land were such. 
Think as you may, I 'm free to say, 

I would we were the Dutch!" 



Just then we overtook a boat, 

The Golden Tulip hight; 
Big with the weight of motley freight, 

It was a goodly sight! 
Mynheer van Blarcom sat on deck, 

With pipe in lordly pose, 
And with his son of twenty-one 

He played at dominos. 



IN PRAISE OF PIE 519 

Then quoth my wife: "How fair to see 

This sturdy, honest man 
Beguile all pain and lust of gain 

With whatso joys he can! 
Methinks his spouse is down below, 

Beading a kerchief gay; 
A babe, mayhap, lolls in her lap 

In the good old milky way 

"Where in the land from whence we came 

Is there content like this? 
Where such disdain of sordid gain — 

Such sweet domestic bliss ? 
A homespun woman I, this land 

Delights me overmuch. 
Think as you will and argue still, 

I like the honest Dutch." 



And then my wife made end of speech; 

Her voice stuck in her throat: 
For, swinging round the turn, we found 

What motor moved the boat. 
Hitched up in towpath-harness there 

Was neither horse nor cow, 
But the buxom frame of a Hollandish dame — 

Mynheer van Blarcom's frau! 
January 27, 1890. 



IN PRAISE OF PIE 

I 'd like to weave a pretty rhyme 

To send my Daily News. 
What shall I do ? In vain I woo 

The too-exacting Muse; 
In vain I coax the tyrant minx, 

And this the reason why: 
She will not sing a plaguy thing, 

Because I 've eaten pie. 



520 SHARPS AND FLATS 

A pretty pass it is, indeed, 

That I have reached at last, 
If I, in spite of appetite, 

Must fast, and fast, and fast! 
The one dear boon I am denied 

Is that for which I sigh. 
Take all the rest that men hold best, 

But leave, oh, leave me pie! 

I hear that Whittier partakes 

Of pie three times a day; 
And it is rife that with a knife 

He stows that pie away. 
There 's Stoddard — he was raised on pie, 

And he is hale and fat. 
And Stedman's cry is always "pie," 

And hot mince-pie at that! 

Of course I 'm not at all like those 

Great masters in their art, 
Except that pie doth ever lie 

Most sweetly next my heart, 
And that I fain would sing my songs 

Without surcease or tiring* 
If 'neath my vest and else could rest 

That viand all-inspiring! 

What I object to is the harsh, 

Vicarious sacrifice 
I 'm forced to make if I partake 

Of fair and proper pies; 
The pangs I suffer are the pangs 
* To other sinners due. 
I 'd gladly bear my righteous share, 

But not the others', too. 

How vain the gift of heavenly fire, 
How vain the laurel wreath, 

If these crown not that godlike spot, 
A well-filled paunch beneath! 



UNCLE EPH 521 

And what is glory but a sham 

To those who pine and sigh 
For bliss denied, which (as implied) 

Is pie, and only pie! 

Well, since it 's come to such a pass, 

I boldly draw the line; 
Go thou, O Muse, which way you choose, 

While I meander mine. 
Farewell, O fancies of the pen, 

That dazzled once mine eye; 
My choice may kill, but still, oh. still, 

I choose and stand for pie! 
April 8, 1890. 



UNCLE EPH 

My Uncle Ephraim was a man who did not live in vain, 

And yet, why he succeeded so I never could explain. 

By nature he was not endowed with wit to a degree, 

But folks allowed there nowhere lived a better man than he. 

He started poor, but soon got rich; he went to Congress then, 

And held that post of honor long against much brainier men; 

He never made a famous speech nor did a thing of note, 

And yet the praise of Uncle Eph welled up from every throat. 

I recollect I never heard him say a bitter word; 

He never carried to and fro unpleasant things he heard; 

He always doffed his hat and spoke to every one he knew; 

He tipped to poor and rich alike a genial "howdy-do"; 

He kissed the babies, praised their looks, and said, "That child 

will grow 
To be a Daniel Webster or our President, I know!" 
His voice was so mellifluous, his smile so full of mirth, 
That folks declared he was the best and smartest man on earth! 

Now, father was a smarter man, and yet he never won 

Such wealth and fame as Uncle Eph, "the deestrick's fav'rite son." 



522 SHARPS AND FLATS 

He had "convictions," and he was not loath to speak his mind; 

He went his way and said his say as he might be inclined. 

Yes, he was brainy; yet his life was hardly a success — 

He was too honest and too smart for this vain world, I guess! 

At any rate, I wondered he was unsuccessful when 

My Uncle Eph, a duller man, was so revered of men! 

When Uncle Eph was dying he called me to his bed, 

And in a tone of confidence inviolate he said: 

"Dear Willyum, ere I seek repose in yonder blissful sphere, 

I fain would breathe a secret in your adolescent ear: 

Strive not to hew your path through life — it really does n't pay; 

Be sure the salve of flattery soaps all you do and say; 

Herein the only royal road to fame and fortune lies: 

Put not your trust in vinegar — molasses catches flies!" 

October 11, 1890. 



CHRISTMAS MORNING 

The angel host that sped last night, 
Bearing the wondrous news afar, 

Came in their ever-glorious flight 
Unto a slumbering little star. 

"Awake and sing, O star!" they cried. 

"Awake and glorify the morn! 
Herald the tidings far and wide — 

He that shall lead His flock is born!" 

The little star awoke and sung 

As only stars in rapture may, 
And presently where church bells hung 

The joyous tidings found their way. 

"Awake, O bells! 't is Christmas morn — 

Awake and let thy music tell 
To all mankind that now is born 

What Shepherd loves His lambkins well! 1 



hymn: midnight hour 523 

Then rang the bells as fled the night 
O'er dreaming land and drowsing deep, 

And coming with the morning light, 
They called, my child, to you asleep. 

Sweetly and tenderly they spoke, 

And lingering round your little bed, 
Their music pleaded till you woke, 

And this is what their music said: 

"Awake and sing! 't is Christmas morn, 

Whereon all earth salutes her King! 
In Bethlehem is the Shepherd born. 

Awake, O little lamb, and sing!" 

So, dear my child, kneel at my feet, 

And with those voices from above 
Share thou this holy time with me, 

The universal hymn of love. 
December 25, 1890. 



HYMN: MIDNIGHT HOUR 

Midnight hour! how sweet the calm 

Thy solemn cadences impart; 
What solace as of healing balm 

Cometh with thee unto this heart! 
Yet bring me not thy grace alone — 

Let others share thy dear delight; 
Oh, let thy soothing monotone 

Be heard of all this holy night! 

Anon shall angels walk the sky, 
The stars cry out in rapturous glee, 

And radiant splendors glorify 

The waking earth and wondering sea; 



524 SHARPS AND FLATS 

Jehovah's reassuring word 

Shall be proclaimed abroad again, 

And tidings everywhere be heard 

Of peace on earth, good will to men! 

'T is of those glories of the morn, 

The sacrifice that makes man free, 
And of the Babe in Bethlehem born 

That midnight's voices speak to me. 
Speak on, O voices sweet and low, 

Soothing our griefs and doubts away- 
That all mankind may hear and know 

What rapture cometh with the day! 

December 25, 1890. 



WHEN STEDMAN COMES TO TOWN 

We 're cleaning up the boulevards 

And divers thoroughfares; 
Our lawns, our fences, and our yards 

Are bristling with repairs; 
And soon Chicago '11 be abloom 

With splendor and renown; 
For ain't we going to have a boom 

When Stedman comes to town? 



And gosh! the things we '11 have to eat- 

The things we '11 have to drink! 
O 'er hecatombs of corn-fed meat 

How shall the glasses clink! 
Our culture, having started in, 

Will do the thing up brown. 
'T will be a race 'twixt brass and tin 

When Stedman comes to town! 



THE STRAW HAT 525 

There 's Mr. Wayback Canvass Hamm, 

Old Croesus' counterpart; 
He don't know nor give a damn 

About poetic art; 
And he has such amount of pelf 

As would weigh mountains down, 
And he has sworn to spread himself 

When Stedman comes to town. 

And Mrs. Hamm, a faded belle, 

And one no longer young, — 
She speaks the native quite as well 

As any foreign tongue, — 
At Mr. Hamm's reception she 

Will wear a gorgeous gown 
That shows all else but modesty, 

When Stedman comes to town. 



Now, Stedman knows a thing or two 

Besides poetic art; 
Yes, truth to say, 'twixt me and you, 

Stedman is mighty smart; 
And so I wonder will he smile 

Good-naturedly or frown 
At our flamboyant Western style, 

When Stedman comes to .town. 
April 23, 1891. 



THE STRAW HAT 

The sweet shade falls athwart her face, 
And leaves half shadow and half light — 

Dimples and lips in open day, 

And dreamy brows and eyes in night. 



526 SHARPS AND FLATS 

So low the languid eyelids fall, 

They rest their silk upon her cheek, 

And give delicious laziness 

To glances arch and cunning meek. 

It cannot frown, the placid brow 

Hidden in rare obscurity; 
They cannot hate, the indolent eyes, 

The sins they do not strive to see. 

And in the sunshine of her cheeks 
The wanton dimples are at play, 

So frolic-earnest in their sport 
They do not care to look away. 

And, oh, if love, kiss-winged, should come 
And light on such a rose as this, 

Could brow or eye or dimples blame 
Such lips for giving back a kiss? 

June 24, 1891. 



1 



A WAR-SONG 

Awake! arise, ye patriot brave, 

Your duty to fulfill! 
Rush in your righteous wrath to save 

The land from threatened ill. 
Foul treachery's vengeful shadows flit 

Like demons everywhere; 
And Baby Cleveland wants to sit 

In grandpa's baby's chair. 

Shall this spoiled darling vanquish that 
Sweet Hoosier younkit? Nay! 

She '11 never wear her grandpa's hat — 
She is n't built that way. 



EXTINCT MONSTERS 527 

Out — out upon the pampered chit! 

The patriot legions swear 
That Baby Cleveland shall not sit 

In grandpa's baby's chair! 

So come! We '11 lift our standard high — 

A tiny pair of pants! 
This "In hoc signo" '11 petrify 

All Mugwump sycophants! 
Stern common sense shall soon outwit 

Each sentimental snare; 
And Baby Cleveland shall not sit 

In grandpa's baby's chair! 
June 24, 1892. 



EXTINCT MONSTERS 

Oh, had I lived in the good old days, 
When the Ichthyosaurus ramped around, 

When the Elasmosaur swam the bays, 
And the Sivatherium pawed the ground, 

Would I have spent my precious time 

At weaving golden thoughts in rhyme ? 

When the Tinoceras snooped about, 
And the Pterodactyl flapped its wings, 

When the Brontops with the warty snout 
Noseyed around for herbs and things, 

Would I have bothered myself o'ermuch 

About divine afflatus and such? 

The Dinotherium flourished then; 

The Pterygotus lashed the seas; 
The Rhamphorhynchus prospered when 

The Scaphognathus perched in trees; 
And every creature, wild and tame, 
Rejoiced in some rococo name. 



528 SHARPS AND FLATS 

Pause and ponder; who could write 

A triolet or roundelay 
While a Megatherium yawped all night 

And a Hesperornis yamped all day, 
While now and again the bray sonorous 
Of Glyptodon Asper swelled the chorus ? 

If I 'd been almost anything 

But a poet, I might have got along: 

Those extinct monsters of hoof and wing 
Were not conducive to lyric song; 

So Nature reserved this tender bard 

For the kindlier Age of Pork and Lard. 

May 11, 1893. 



MRS. REILLY'S PEACHES 

Whether in Michigan they grew, 

Or by the far Pacific, 
Or Jerseywards, I never knew 

Or cared; they were magnifique! 
They set my hungry eyes aflame, 

My heart' to beating quicker, 
When trotted out by that good dame, 

A-drowned in spicy liquor! 

Of divers sweets in many a land 

I have betimes partaken, 
Yet now for those old joys I stand, 

My loyalty unshaken! 
My palate, weary of the ways 

Of modern times, beseeches 
The toothsome grace of halcyon days 

And Mrs. Reilly's peaches! 

Studded with cloves and cinnamon, 
And duly spiced and pickled, 

That viand was as choice an one 
As ever palate tickled! 



o'connor's iloquint spache 529 

And by those peaches on his plate 

No valorous soul was daunted, 
For oh, the more of them you ate 

The more of them you wanted! 

The years have dragged a weary pace 

Since last those joys I tasted, 
And I have grown so wan of face 

And oh, so slender- waisted! 
Yes, all is sadly changed, and yet 

If this eulogium reaches 
A certain lady, I shall get 

A quick return in peaches. 
May 15, 1893. 



O'CONNOR'S ILOQUINT SPACHE 

'T wuz whin O'Connor shpoke the crowd 

Grew pathriotic truly; 
For him O'Dooley hit O'Dowd 

And Healy shtruck O'Dooley; 
And Redmond give Muldoon a swat, 

And all wint well, begorry, 
And there was Home Rule on that shpot, 
Till to his fate O'Connor got, 
An' sez, sez he: "For say in' phwat 

Oi did," sez he, "Oi 'm sorry!" 
July 29, 1893. 



DOCTOR RABELAIS 

Once — it was many years ago, 

In early wedded life, 
Ere yet my loved one had become 

A very knowing wife, 



530 SHARPS AND FLATS 

She came to me and said: "My dear, 
I think (and do not you?) 

That we should have about the house 
A doctor's book or two. 

"Our little ones have sundry ills 

Which I should understand 
And cure myself, if I but had 

A doctor's book at hand. 
Why not economize, my dear, 

In point of doctor's bills 
By purchasing the means to treat 

Our little household ills?" 

Dear, honest, patient little wife! 

She did not even guess 
She offered me the very prize 

I hankered to possess. 
"You argue wisely, wife," quoth I. 

"Proceed without delay 
To find and comprehend the works 

Of Doctor Rabelais." 

I wrote the title out for her 

(She 'd never heard the name), 
And presently she bought those books, 

And home she lugged the same; 
I clearly read this taunting boast 

On her triumphant brow: 
"Aha, ye venal doctors all, 

Ye are outwitted now!" 

Those volumes stood upon the shelf 

A month or two unread, 
Save as such times by night I conned 

Their precious wit in bed; 
But once — it was a wintry time — 

I heard my loved one say: 
"This child is croupy; I '11 consult 

My doctor, Rabelais!" 



DOCTOR RABELAIS 531 

Soon from her delusive dream 

My beauteous bride awoke. 
Too soon she grasped the fulness of 

My bibliomaniac joke. 
There came a sudden, shocking change, 

As you may well suppose, 
And with her reprehensive voice 

The temperature arose. 

But that was many years ago, 

In early wedded life, 
And that dear lady has become 

A very knowing wife; 
For she hath learned from Rabelais 

What elsewhere is agreed: 
The plague of bibliomania is 

A cureless ill indeed. 

And still at night, when all the rest 

Are hushed in sweet repose, 
O'er those two interdicted tomes 

I laugh and nod and doze. 
From worldly ills and business cares 

My weary mind is lured, 
And by that doctor's magic art 

My ailments all are cured. 

So my dear, knowing little wife 

Is glad that it is so, 
And with a smile recalls the trick 

I played her years ago; 
And whensoe'er dyspeptic pangs 

Compel me to their sway, 
The saucy girl bids me consult 

My Doctor Rabelais! 
November 22, 1894. 



532 SHARPS AND FLATS 



SONG 



Why do the bells of Christmas ring? 
Why do little children sing? 

Once a lovely shining star, 
Seen by shepherds from afar, 
Gently moved until its light 
Made a manger's cradle bright. 

There a darling baby lay, 
Pillowed soft upon the hay; 
And its mother sung and smiled: 
"This is Christ, the holy Child!" 

Therefore bells for Christmas ring, 
Therefore little children sing. 
December 12, 1894. 



TO WARD H. LAMON, ASLEEP ON HIS 
LIBRARY FLOOR 

As you, dear Lamon, soundly slept, 
With books around you on the floor, 

Into this pleasant nook I crept, 
To hear the music of your snore. 

A man who sleeps as now you sleep, 
Who pipes as music'ly as you, . 

Who sinks all care in slumbers deep, 
As you, O happy man, now do, 

Must have a conscience fully free 
Of troublous pangs and vain ado: 

So ever may your slumbers be, 
So ever be your conscience, too! 



THE SNAKES 533 

And when the last sweet sleep of all 

Shall smooth the wrinkles from your brow, 

Oh, may God's eyes as kindly fall 
Upon your sleep as mine do now! 

February 13, 1891. 



THE SNAKES 

These are the snakes that Rowdy saw: 
Some were green and some were white, 
Some were black as the spawn of night; 

Some were yellow; 

And one big fellow 
Had monstrous blotches of angry red, 
And a scarlet welt on his slimy head; 
And other snakes that Rowdy saw 

Were of every hue 

From pink to blue, 
And the longer he looked the bigger they grew! 

An old he-snake with a frowsy head 
Was one of the snakes that Rowdy saw. 
This old he-snake he grinned and leered 
When he saw that Rowdy was afeard; 
And he ran out his tongue in frightful wise 
As he batted his fireless dead-fish eyes; 
And he lashed his tail 
In the moonlight pale, 
And he tickled his jaw with his left hind paw — 
Did this old he-snake that Rowdy saw! 

These hideous snakes that Rowdy saw 

Wriggled and twisted 

Wherever they listed, 

Straightway glided 

Or ambled one-sided. 
There were some of those things 
That had fiery wings — 



534 SHARPS AND FLATS 

Yes, some of the snakes that Rowdy saw 

Hummed round in the air 

With their eyeballs aglare 

And their whiskers aflare; 
And they hissed their approval of Rowdy's despair! 

And some of the snakes that Rowdy saw 
Had talons like bats, 
And looked like a cross between buzzards and rats! 
They crawled from his boots, and they sprawled on the floor; 
They sat on the mantel, and perched on the door, 
And grinned all the fiercer the louder he swore! 

Out, out of his boots 
Came the damnable brutes — 
These murdersome snakes that Rowdy saw! 
Strange cries they uttered, 
And poison they sputtered 
As they crawled or they fluttered. 
This way and that 
Their venom they spat, 
Till Rowdy had doubts as to where he was at. 

They twined round his legs, and encircled his waist; 
His arms and his neck and his breast they embraced; 
They hissed in his ears, and they spat in his eyes, 
And with their foul breaths interrupted his cries. 

Blue serpents and green, 
Red, yellow, and black, 

Of as hideous mien 

As ever was seen, 
Girt him round, fore and back, 

And higgling 

And wiggling, 
With their slimy and grinny preponderance they bore 
Rowdy down to the floor. He remembers no more. 

The sequel is this: The snakes that he saw 

Were such hideous snakes, were such torturesome things, 
With their poison-tipped fangs and their devil-claw wings, 






THE BOY 535 

That he speaks of them now with a meaningful awe; 
And when in the bar-room the bottle goes round, 
And wassail and laughter and "boodle" abound, 

Poor Rowdy he turns down his glass with a sigh. 

"Come, Rowdy, drink hearty!" the aldermen cry. 

His palate is yearning, his fauces are dry, 

The bottle appeals to his gullet and eye; 

But he thinks of the snakes, and he — lets it go by. 
January 4, 1895. 



THE BOY 



Down through the snow-drifts in the street 

With blustering joy he steers; 
His rubber boots are full of feet 

And his tippet full of ears. 
January 15, 1895. 



THE BUGABOO 

There was a wonderful bugaboo 

Lived in a drear Egyptian clime, 
And with a base intent he flew 

Up northward once upon a time. 
Where little Quincy Browning slept, 

This boogy flew without delay, 
And down the chimney-flue he crept 

To steal that pretty child away. 

Awakened in the dead of night 

By him a-crawling down the flue, 
Imagine little Quincy's fright 

To see the dreadful bugaboo. 
He wept with all his might and main 

Till all his tears were nearly spent, 
But his remonstrances were vain — 

The bugaboo would not relent. 



536 SHARPS AND FLATS 

"Be quiet," hissed the bugaboo, 

And then he scratched the infant sore, 
And from his little crib he drew 

The screaming child upon the floor. 
But all for nothing were his pains, 

For as he flew to Egypt wild 
In rushed the good old Gran'ma Haines 

To see what ailed her precious child. 

"Go, leave my pretty dear alone, 

And never dare again intrude!" 
Cried gran'ma, in a savage tone 

And with a threatening attitude. 
He dropped his screaming, struggling prey, 

And scuttled up the chimney-flue; 
And back to Egypt far away 

Escaped the dreadful bugaboo. 
January 28, 1885. 



A VALENTINE 

TO THE EVER-ADORABLE AND EVER-GRACIOUS MISSES ANNA DELLA 
AND ELIZABETH WINSLOW, AGED TEN AND SEVEN YEARS 
RESPECTIVELY 

If I were Eric Ericsson, with flowing flaxen hair, 

Perhaps Miss Anna Delia would not scoff at my despair. 

Perhaps my sweet Elizabeth would bless me with a smile 

If I were Patrick Miles O'Dowd — a lord from Erin's isle. 

Alas, I am not Eric, and alas, I am not Pat! 

I simply am a Yankee boy, and a tough old one at that. 

Yet do I love these beauteous maids whom I have named above, 

And send them both this valentine to tell them of my love — 

A paltry, graceless thing, yet with a thousand kisses sealed, 

And autographed (as you observe) by poor old Field. 

February 14, 1895. 



THE TIN BANK 537 



THE TIN BANK 

Speaking of the banks, I 'm bound to say 

That a bank of tin is far the best, 
And I know of one that has stood for years 

In a pleasant home away out West; 
It had stood for years on the mantelpiece, 

Between the clock and the Wedgwood plate — 
A wonderful bank, as you '11 concede 

When you 've heard the things I '11 now relate. 

This bank was made of McKinley tin, 

Well soldered up at sides and back; 
But it didn't resemble tin at all, 

For they 'd painted it over an iron-black. 
And that it really was a bank 

'T was an easy thing to see and say, 
For above the door in gorgeous red 

Appeared the letters B-A-N-K. 

This bank had been so well devised 

And wrought so cunningly that when 
You put your money in that hole 

It couldn't get out of that hole again! 
Somewhere about that stanch, snug thing 

A secret spring was hid away, 
But where it was, or how it worked — 

Excuse me, please, but I will not say. 

Thither, with dimpled cheeks aglow 

Came pretty children oftentimes, 
And, standing upon a stool or chair, 

Put in their divers pence and dimes. 
Once Uncle Hank came home from town, 

After a cycle of grand events, 
And put in a round blue ivory thing 

He said was good for fifty cents! 



538 SHARPS AND FLATS 

The bank went clinkety-clinkety-clink, 

And larger grew the precious sum, 
Which grandma said she hoped would prove 

A gracious boon to heathendom! 
But there were those — I call no names — 

Who did not fancy any plan 
That did not in some wise involve 

The candy and banana man. 

Listen: Once when the wind went " Y-o-o-o-o-o-o ! : 
When with a wail the screech-owl flew 

Out of her lair in the haunted barn — 

There came three burglars down the road, 

Three burglars skilled in arts of sin, 

And they cried: " What 's this ? Aha ! Oho!" 

They burgled from half-past ten p. M. 

Till the village bell struck four o'clock; 
They hunted and searched and guessed and tried— 

But the little tin bank would not unlock! 
They couldn't discover the secret spring! 

So when the barn-yard rooster crowed, 
They up with their tools and stole away, 

With the bitter remark that they 'd be blowed! 

Next morning came a sweet-faced child, 

And reached her dimpled hand to take 
A nickel to send to the heathen poor 

And a nickel to spend for her stomach's sake; 
She pressed the hidden secret spring, 

And lo! the bank flew open then 
With a cheery creek that seemed to say 

"I am glad to see you come again!" 

If you were I, and if I were you, 
.What would we keep our money in? 

In a down-town bank of British steel 
Or an at home bank of McKinley tin? 



MY SABINE FARM 539 

Some want silver and some want gold, 
But the little tin bank that wants the two 

And is run on the double-standard plan — 
Why, that is the bank for me and you! 

June 22, 1895. 



MY SABINE FARM 

At last I have a Sabine farm 

Abloom with shrubs and flowers; 
And garlands gay I weave by day 

Amid those fragrant bowers; 
And yet, O fortune hideous, 
I have no blooming Lydias; 
And what, ah, what's a Sabine farm to us without its Lydias? 

Within my cottage is a room 

Where I would fain be merry; 
Come one and all unto that hall, 

Where you '11 be welcome, very! 
I 've a butler who 's Hibernian — 
But no, I 've no Falernian! 
And what, ah, what 's a Sabine farm to you without Falernian ? 

Upon this cosey Sabine farm 

What breeds my melancholy? 
Why is my Muse down with the blues 

Instead of up and jolly? 
A secret this between us: 
I 'm shy of a Maecenas! 
And what 's, oh, what 's a Sabine farm to me without Maecenas ! 

August 1, 1895. 



540 SHARPS AND FLATS 



THE VINEYARD 

Into the vineyard I went with Bill, 

Blithe as youth can be, 
As the sun declined beyond the hill 

And drowsed in the western sea; 
And under the arching vines we sat, 
And we sampled this and we sampled that 
Till we didn't know where we were at, 

Nor the devil a bit cared we. 

Out of the vineyard I came with Bill, 

Just in time to see 
The sun peep over an eastern hill 

And grin at Bill and me. 
And Bill remarked: " We quit too soon; 
Let us sit in the light of that silvery moon 
And list to the nightingale's plaintive tune!" 

So back to the vineyard went we. 
September 7, 1895. 



1 



FOR THE CHARMING MISS I. F.'S ALBUM 

If you loved me as I love you, 
No knife could cut our love in two! 
Not even though that envious blade 
Of rare Toledo stuff was made, 
Not though its handle lay within 
The grasp of mighty Saladin; 
I should not heed; its feeble shock 
Would fall as on a flinty rock, 
And its attack would simply be 
A trifling incident to me; 
It could not cut our love in two 
If you loved me as I love you! 



FOR THE CHARMING MISS I. F.'S ALBUM 541 

Nor could the mighty cyclone's wrath, 
That levels cities in its path, 
Uproots whole forests, mows the grain, 
And furrows up the stubborn plain, 
It could not cause me to repine 
If only your true love were mine! 
I 'd bid the boisterous breezes blow — 
Knowing as only I should know 
They could not rend our love in two 
If you loved me as I love you! 

And if a Herr Professor came 
(I hint no hint, I name no name!) — 
What if he came from oversea, 
And fiddled, as can only he, 
Antique sonatas by the score, 
Etudes and opuses galore, 
And other tunes from foreign lands 
One likes, but seldom understands — 
The tweedledees and tweedledums 
We always get when Thomas comes; 
We 'd let him fiddle — all his art 
Could never fiddle us apart, 
Could never charm our love in two 
If you loved me as I love you! 

If — ah, that "if" stands in the way, 

And so I 've nothing more to say; 

I '11 to your father; he '11 insure 

A speedy menticulture cure 

For him who would not wail "boo-hoo" 

If you loved me as I love you! 

October 16, 1895. 



INDEX TO FIRST LINES 

PAGE 

A beggar-man crept to my side 453 

A bingo bird once nestled her nest 324 

A Boston gentleman declares 479 

A bottle-tree bloometh in Winkyway land — 290 

A century or so ago 493 

A child was singing at his play — 417 

A Dibdin properly displayed 487 

A dying mother gave to you 1 

A flimflam flopped from a fillamaloo 329 

A fool, when plagued by fleas by night 509 

A little bit of a woman came 60 

A little boy named Thomas ate 456 

A little boy whose name was Tim 332 

A little peach in the orchard grew 30 

A moonbeam floateth from the skies 254 

A poet, crazed by Mammon, hung 438 

A sorry life, forsooth, these wretched girls are undergoing 399 

A sunbeam comes a-creeping 281 

A tortuous double iron track; a station here, a station there 151 

Abou Ben Halstead — may his tribe increase! 467 

Accept, dear girl, this little token 64 

Ach, faeder bed! mein faeder bed! 516 

Achievin' sech distinction with his moddel tabble dote 7 

Afore we went to Denver we had heerd the Tabor Grand 13 

After dear old grandma died 267 

Aha! a traitor in the camp 255 

All day long they come and go — 221 

Amber clouds on a cobalt sky 454 

An editor in Kankakee 459 

And thou, twin orbs of love and joy! 334 

And when at last, with priestly pray'r 503 

Any color, so long as it's red 93 

As beats the sun from mountain crest 103 

As I am sitting in the sun upon the porch to-day 232 

As I was going to Bethlehem-town 134 

As on my roving way I go ■ 496 

543 



544 INDEX TO FIRST LINES 

PAGE 

As once I rambled in the woods 141 

As to-night you came your way 116 

As you, dear Lamon, soundly slept 532 

Assert ten Barren love day made 446 

At last I have a Sabine farm • 539 

At Madge, ye hoyden, gossips scofft 18 

Awake! arise, ye patriot brave 526 

Away down East where I was reared amongst my Yankee kith 142 

Ba-ba, baby sheep 319 

Bambino in his cradle slept 266 

Be tranquil, Dellius, I pray 359 

Ben Butler, on a summer's day 474 

Bill was short and dapper, while I was thin and tall 110 

Blithe was the youth that summer day 83 

Boy, I detest the Persian pomp 354 

"Bring me a tiny mouse's skin" 455 

Broad expanse of shiny shirt-front 468 

Buttercup, Poppy, Forget-me-not — 233 

Can I forget that winter night 460 

Chloe, you shun me like a hind 380 

Chloris, my friend, I pray you your misconduct to forswear 352 

Cinna, the great Venusian, told 417 

Come, brothers, share the fellowship 162 

" Come, Chloe, beauteous maiden, come 475 

Come, dear old friend, and with us twain 350 

Come, Harvey, let us sit awhile and talk about the times 252 

Come hither, lyttel childe, and lie upon my breast to-night 261 

Come, let us quaff a stirrup-cup 475 

Come, my Lesbia, no repining 428 

Come, my little one, with me! 301 

Come, now, who is this Pasadene 450 

Come, Phyllis, I've a cask of wine 378 

Cometh the Wind from the garden, fragrant and full of sweet singing — . . 166 

Corinthian Hall is a tumble-down place 104 

" Cupid !" Venus went a-crying 423 

Dear, noble friend! a virgin cask 351 

Dear Palmer, just a year ago we did the Carlsbad cure .92 

Dear wife, last midnight, whilst I read 88 

Dearest, how hard it is to say . 237 

Did I dream? Was 't a fancy 451 

Don't take on so, Hiram . . 128 

Down in the old French quarter 172 

Down south there is a curio-shop 165 

Down through the snow-drifts in the street 535 

Dream, dream, dream 334 



INDEX TO FIRST LINES 545 

PAGE 

Ed was a man that played for keeps, 'nd when he tuk the notion . . . . . 185 

Eftsoons the priest had made his say 504 

Eros is the god of love 421 

Every evening, after tea 227 

Fair is the castle upon the hill — 259 

Fair was her young and girlish face 471 

Far, far beyond yon Eastern steeps 319 

Father calls me William, sister calls me Will 273 

Father, I cry to Thee! 429 

Fisherman Jim lived on the hill 313 

Friend, by the way you hump yourself you're from the States, I know . . . 101 

From Hanover to Leipzig is but a little way 132 

From hill and plain to the State of Maine 490 

From Onathlamba in the west 440 

From out Cologne there came three kings 108 

From the flow'rs and from the trees 322 

From the land of logs and peaches 508 

Full many a sinful notion 28 

Fuscus, whoso to good inclines 361 

George William Curtis met a lad 457 

"Give me my bow," said Robin Hood 336 

Go, Cupid, and my sweetheart tell 308 

God rest you, Chrysten gentil men 45 

Good editor Dana — God bless him, we say — 146 

Good old days — dear old days 188 

Good-by, old stamp; it's nasty luck 448 

Grieve not, my Albius, if thoughts of Glycera may haunt you 363 

Grim is the face that looks into the night 411 

Happy the man that, when his day is done 186 

Have you ever heard of the Sugar-Plum Tree? . 215 

Have you ever heard the wind go "Yooooo"? 270 

Have you got the jellies made, mother? 462 

Here died a robin in the spring 326 

His listening soul hears no echo of battle . 229 

His was the sword that from its scabbard leapt 489 

Ho, pretty bee, did you see my croodlin' doo? 240 

Holly standeth in ye house 85 

How calm, how beauteous and how cool — 416 

How cool and fair this cellar where 418 

How fair you are, my mother! 63 

How happens it, my cruel miss 381 

How infamous that men should raise 476 

How trifling shall these gifts appear 142 

Hush, bonnie, dinna greit 222 

Hush, little one, and fold your hands — 264 



546 INDEX TO FIRST LINES 

PAGE 

I ain't afeard uv snakes, or toads, or bugs, or worms, or mice 310 

I am booming, brother, booming 469 

I cannot eat my porridge 344 

I count my treasures o'er with care 263 

I hasten from the land of snows 318 

I hate the common, vulgar herd! 404 

I hear Thy voice, dear Lord 31 

I like the Anglo-Saxon speech 43 

I long for some intenser life 514 

I looked in the brook and saw a face — > 299 

I love the lyric muse! 366 

I loved him so; his voice had grown 258 

I often wonder mother loves to creep 460 

I once knew all the birds that came 241 

I pray that, risen from the dead 230 

I say, as one who never feared 274 

I see you, Maister Bawsy-brown 27 

I shall tell you in rhyme how, once on a time 150 

I show, by my distressful tones 512 

I stood upon the peak, amid the air 513 

I thought myself, indeed, secure 247 

I was a mother, and I weep 253 

I was just a little thing , 265 

I wish't I lived away down East, where codfish salt the sea 498 

I wonder ef all wimmin air 127 

I'd like to be a cowboy an' ride a firey hoss 342 

I'd like to weave a pretty rhyme 519 

I'd not complain of Sister Jane, for she was good and kind 183 

If ever in the sylvan shade 371 

If for your oath broken, or word lightly spoken 383 

If I were Eric Ericsson, with flowing flaxen hair 536 

If our own life is the life of a flower 415 

If thou wilt shut thy drowsy eyes 262 

If you loved me as I love you 540 

I'm a beautiful red, red drum 276 

I'm going to write a letter to our oldest boy who went 249 

I'm hastening from the distant hills 323 

I'm thinking of the wooing 407 

I'm weary of this weather and I hanker for the ways 204 

In an ocean, 'way out yonder 275 

In former times my numerous rhymes excited general mirth ...... 135 

In Ipswich nights are cool and fair 109 

In maudlin spite let Thracians fight 358 

In Oberhausen, on a time 65 

In the market of Clare, so cheery the glare 202 

In this week's history of the Fair 449 

In yonder old cathedral 202 

Into the vineyard I went with Bill 540 



INDEX TO FIRST LINES 547 

PAGE 

Into the woods three huntsmen came 406 

It is very aggravating 23 

It seems like a dream — that sweet wooing of old — 452 

It's everywhere that women fair invite and please my eye 120 

It's June ag'in, an' in my soul I feel the fillin' joy 299 

It's when the birds go piping and the daylight slowly breaks 279 

I've travelled in heaps of countries, and studied all kinds of art 107 

Jest as atween the awk'ard lines a hand we love has penn'd 199 

Keep me, I pray, in wisdom's way 22 

King Grover at his table round 499 

Krinken was a little child 216 

Last night, as my dear babe lay dead 278 

Last night, my darling, as you slept 231 

Last night the Stork came stalking 289 

Last night, whiles that the curfew bell ben ringing 245 

Lie in my arms, Ailsie, my bairn 36 

Little All-Aloney's feet 308 

Little eyelids, cease your winking 327 

Little Miss Brag has much to say 294 

Little Mistress Sans-Merci 240 

Lofty and enduring is the monument I've reared 377 

Lyce, the gods have heard my prayers, as gods will hear the dutiful .... 368 

Lyman and Frederick and Jim, one day 175 

Maecenas, I propose to fly ' 394 

Maecenas, thou of royalty's descent 363 

Maecenas, you will be my death, — though friendly you profess yourself . . 354 

Many a beauteous flower doth spring 417. 

Marcus Varro went up and down 209 

Mary had a little lamb 466 

May the man who has cruelly murdered his sire 367 

Meynheer Hans Von Der Bloom has got 114 

Midnight hour! how sweet the calm 523 

Misery is my lot 430 

My baby slept — how calm his rest 201 

My books are on their shelves again 196 

My dolly is a dreadful care — 217 

My father bought an undershirt 459 

My father was no pessimist; he loved the things of earth — 62 

My garden aboundeth in pleasant nooks 210 

My grandsire, years and years ago 482 

My harp is on the willow-tree 251 

My lady has a tea-gown 79 

My little child comes to my knee 485 



548 INDEX TO FIRST LINES 



PAGE 

My Shepherd is the Lord my God — 40 

My Uncle Ephraim was a man who did not live in vain 521 

Nigh to a boom that was newly made 472 

No more your needed rest at night . •. 386 

Not to lament that rival flame 362 

Notably fond of music, I dote on a sweeter tone 73 

Now lithe and listen, gentles all 190 

Now stands Soracte white with snow, now bend the laboring trees .... 370 

Now was Sir Grover passing wroth 502 

O cruel fair 373 

O fathers all, reflect upon 464 

O fountain of Bandusia! . 353 

O fountain of Bandusia! more glittering than glass 353 

O gracious jar, — my friend, my twin 392 

O hapless day! O wretched day! 53 

O heart of mine! lift up thine eyes 413 

O Lady Fortune! 'tis to thee I call 391 

O mother-my-love, if you'll give me your hand 260 

O Mother Venus, quit, I pray 398 

O Postumus, my Postumus, the years are gliding past 375 

O ship of state 356 

O virgin, tri-formed goddess fair 370 

Oh, a wonderful horse is the Fly-Away Horse 303 

Oh, come with me to the arctic seas 478 

Oh, come with me to the Happy Isles 373 

Oh, for the honest, blithesome times 508 

Oh, had I lived in the good old days 527 

Oh, hand me down my spectacles 488 

Oh, hand me down my spike-tail coat 501 

Oh, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul 339 

Oh, listen, little Dear-My-Soul 258 

Oh, them days on Red Hoss Mountain, when the skies wuz fair 'nd blue . . 1 

Oh, what has become of the Mugwump-bird 495 

Of all the gracious gifts of Spring 117 

Of all the opry-houses then obtaining in the West 167 

Of mornings, bright and early 291 

Of tarts there be a thousand kinds ,118 

Of your love for your handmaid you need feel no shame . 360 

On afternoons, when baby boy has had a splendid nap 269 

On such a day as this old Notting Wood 505 

On such a day as this the Nazarene 505 

Once a fowler, young and artless 413 

Once came Venus to me, bringing 414 

Once — it was many years ago 529 

Once on a time a friend of mine prevailed on me to go 90 

Once on a time an old red hen 330 



INDEX TO FIRST LINES 549 

PAGE 

One asketh 410 

One day I got a missive 212 

One day upon a topmost shelf 207 

One night a tiny dewdrop fell 337 

One night aside the fire at hum 437 

One night the charming Gerster said 465 

"Only an editor's wife," they say 463 

Our course lay up a smooth canal 518 

Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name 167 

Out of the house where the slumberer lay 340 

Out of the woods by the creek cometh a calling for Peter 178 

Out on the mountain over the town 236 

Out spake Horatius Flaherty, — a Fenian bold was he 447 

Out yonder in the moonlight, where in God's Acre lies 137 

Ovarus mine 390 

Over the hills and far away 316 

Play that my knee was a calico mare 297 

Play that you are mother dear 307 

Pompey, what fortune gives you back 393 

Prate, ye who will, of so-called charms you find across the sea — 161 

Prudence Mears hath an old blue plate , 139 

Saint Jo, Buchanan County 75 

St. Martin's Lane winds up the hill 70 

See, Thaliarch mine, how, white with snow 369 

See, what a wonderful garden is here 303 

Seek not, Leuconoe, to know how long you're going to live yet 372 

Shall I woo the one or other? 434 

Should painter attach to a fair human head 374 

Shuffle-Shoon and Amber- Locks . 300 

Since Chloe is so monstrous fair 381 

Sing, Christmas bells! 42 

Sir Grover quoth: " Let each one here 503 

Sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings — 225 

So, so, rock-a-by so! 280 

Some men affect a liking 186 

Some time there ben a lyttel boy 226 

Speakin' of dorgs, my bench-legged fyce 292 

Speaking of the banks, I 'm bound to say 537 

Star of the East, that long ago 153 

Still serve me in my age, I pray 409 

Stork, I am justly wroth 243 

Strange that the city thoroughfare 248 

Suppose, my dear, that you were I 140 

Sweet, bide with me and let my love 431 

Sweet Phyllis, I have here a jar of old and precious wine 379 

Sweetheart, be my sweetheart 177 



550 INDEX TO FIRST LINES 

PAGE 

"Sweetheart, take this," a soldier said 35 

Swing high and swing low 305 

Syn that you, Chloe, to your moder sticken 382 

Tell me, Lydia, tell me why 399 

Than you, O valued friend of mine 383 

Thar showed up out 'n Denver in the spring uv '81 37 

The angel host that sped last night •. 522 

The big-eyed baby, just across the way 499 

The Blue Horizon wuz a mine us fellers all thought well uv 11 

The brave Shoshones much revere 438 

The Cafe" Molineau is where 84 

The cruel mother of the Loves 387 

The day is done; and, lo! the shades 401 

The eastern sky is streaked with red 333 

The fickle twin Illyrian gales , 358 

The fire upon the hearth is low 242 

The gingham dog and the calico cat 282 

The gods let slip that fiendish grip 199 

The golden year is nearly sped 487 

The Greeks had genius, — 't was a gift 366 

The Hawthorne children — seven in all — 223 

The hero of affairs of love . 357 

The image of the moon at night 409 

The little boom they said was vain 470 

The little French doll was a dear little doll 311 

The little toy dog is covered with dust 248 

The mill goes toiling slowly around 218 

The morning sun in splendor shone 445 

The mountain brook sung lonesomelike, and loitered on its way 16 

The Mugwump sat on a hickory limb 495 

The Northland reared his hoary head 152 

The old man sits inveiled by gloom 483 

The other night as in my bed 490 

The Rock-a-By Lady from Hushaby street 268 

The sage of Greystone, so they say 445 

The sky is dark and the hills are white 230 

The stars are twinkling in the skies 335 

The sun climbs up, but still the tyrant Sleep 507 

The sun had slipped down .* . . . 442 

The sweet shade falls athwart her face 525 

The top it hummeth a sweet, sweet song 295 

The twinkling stars, that stud the skies 316 

The western breeze is springing up, the ships are in the bay 396 

The wind comes whispering to me of the country green and cool — . . . . 160 

The wold is drear and the sedges sere 483 

The women-folk are like to books . . - 40 

Ther ben a knyghte, Sir Hoten hight 511 



INDEX TO FIRST LINES 551 

PAGE 

There are happenings in life that are destined to rise 77 

There are no days like the good old days 124 

There are times in one's life which one cannot forget 125 

There are two phrases, you must know 154 

There are two stars in yonder steeps 331 

There burns a star o'er Bethlehem town — 517 

There fell a star from realms above — 407 

There is a certain Yankee phrase 187 

There — let thy hands be folded 145 

There once was a bird that lived up in a tree 315 

There, there, poor dog, my faithful friend 434 

There was a certain gentleman, Ben Apfelgarten called 155 

There was a prince by the name of Tsing 320 

There was a wonderful bugaboo 535 

There were three cavaliers, all handsome and true 341 

There were three cavaliers that went over the Rhine 433 

There were two little skeezucks who lived in the isle 345 

There's a dear little home in Good-Children street — 283 

There's somethin' in your homely ways 492 

These are the snakes that Rowdy saw 533 

They told me once that Pan was dead 171 

This talk about the journalists that run the East is bosh 25 

Though care and strife 32 

Though I am king, I have no throne 125 

Though mighty in Love's favor still 372 

Three authors stood upon the beach 506 

Three comrades on the German Rhine , 422 

Through all my life the poor shall find 78 

Through sleet and fogs to the saline bogs 51 

Through those golden summer days 96 

Tiddle-de-dumpty, tiddle-de-dee — 327 

Time, by Julia's face enchanted 510 

'T is quite the thing to say and sing 80 

'T is spring! The boats bound to the sea 396 

'T is when the lark goes soaring 272 

'T is years, soubrette, since last we met 59 

Tityrus, all in the shade of the wide-spreading beech-tree reclining , . . . 425 

To bear the yoke not yet your love's submissive neck is bent 368 

To Scythian and Cantabrian plots 389 

To the willows of the brookside 189 

To-day, fair Thisbe, winsome girl! 486 

To-day I strayed in Charing Cross, as wretched as could be 67 

'T was in the Crescent City not long ago befell 158 

Two dreams came down to earth one night 156 

'T wuz whin O'Connor shpoke the crowd 529 

Unto a withered palm-tree clinging ' . . 515 

Unto his valiant aide-de-camp 441 



552 INDEX TO FIRST LINES 

PAGE 

Up in the attic where I slept 306 

Up yonder in Buena Park 284 

Upon a mountain height, far from the sea 34 

Upon an average, twice a week 95 

Upon the hot Egyptian sands 480 

Upon this beautiful expanse 491 

Us two wuz boys when we fell out 24 

Used to think that luck wuz luck and nuthin' else but luck — 206 

Venus, dear Cnidian-Paphian queen! 395 

Way up at the top of a big stack of straw 163 

We wake up and make up 497 

We 're cleaning up the boulevards 524 

What conversazzhyonies wuz I really did not know 4 

What dainty boy with sweet perfumes bedewed 377 

What end the gods may have ordained for me 371 

What gods or heroes, whose brave deeds none can dispute 400 

What of these tidings, Grover dear 500 

What perfumed, posie-dizened sirrah 376 

What though the radiant thoroughfare 74 

When all around from out the ground 328 

When baby wakes of mornings 311 

When brother Bill and I were boys 256 

" When Father Time swings round his scythe 184 

When I am in New York, I like to drop around at night 147 

When I helped 'em run the local on the "St. Jo Gazette" 112 

When I remark her golden hair 144 

When I was a boy at college 402 

When I was broke in London in the fall of '89 71 

When I was young and callow, which was many years ago . . . ... . . 129 

When I wuz somewhat younger 131 

When in the halycon days of eld, I was a little tyke 52 

When Jim and Bill and I were boys a many years ago 338 

When, Lydia, you (once fond and true 388 

When our babe he goeth walking in his garden 270 

When praising Telephus you sing 389 

When the busy day is done 296 

When the numerous distempers to which all flesh is heir 122 , 

When the world is fast asleep 138 

When the writer has written with all of his might 478 

When thou dost eat from off this plate 313 

When, to despoil my native France 432 

When to the dreary greenwood gloam 174 

When treason boldly stalked the land 473 

When winter nights are grewsome, and the heavy, yellow fog 86 

When you were mine, in auld lang syne 384 

Whenas ye plaisaunt Aperille shoures have washed and purged awaye ... 45 



INDEX TO FIRST LINES 553 

PAGE 

Where my true love abideth 419 

Where wail the waters in their flow 55 

Whereas, it is alleged, to wit 444 

Whether in Michigan they grew 528 

While favored by thy smiles no other youth in amorous teasing 385 

Who I am I shall not say 342 

Who should come up the road one day 348 

Why do the bells of Christmas ring ? 532 

Why do you shun me, Chloe, like the fawn 380 

Why, Mistress Chloe, do you bother 382 

Why should I pine and languish so? 484 

Willie and Bess, Georgie and May — 219 

With big tin trumpet and little red drum 214 

With not a faithful lackey nigh m 468 

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night 234 

Yonder stands the hillside chapel 408 

You ask me, friend 355 

You, blatant coward that you are 397 

You vain, self-conscious little book 365 

You, who have compassed land and sea 357 

You wore the blue and I the gray 455 

Young Lochinvar came in from the West 94 

Your gran'ma, in her youth, was quite 246 

You 're not so big as you were then 238 






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